•inv/ 


I  AP    t 


Bonore  tie  iSaljac 


J^tmorfc  tre  Balzac 

PROVINCIAL   LIFE 


VOLUME  VIII 


LIMITED    TO   ONE    THOUSAND   COMPLETE   COPIES 

713 


NO. 


U97/ty  "J     " 


m 


IN  FINOT'S   OFFICE 


"A  claim  then,  no  doubt?"  rejoined  Napoleon's 
former  trooper.  "  We  were  a  little  hard  on  Mariette, 
I  admit.  But  what  do  you  expect!  I  don't  even 
know  why  it  was  as  yet.  But  if  you  demand  sat- 
isfaction, I  am  ready,"  he  added,  glancing  at  a  col- 
lection of  foils  and  pistols,  the  modern  stand  of  arms, 
heaped  together  in  a  corner. 

"Still  less  do  I  come  for  that,  monsieur.  I  desire 
to  speak  with  the  editor  in  chief." 


?9 


o 


LOST  ILLUSIONS 


189954 


TO  MONSIEUR  VICTOR  HUGO 

You  who,  by  virtue  of  the  privilege  accorded  the 
Raphaels  and  the  Pitts,  were  a  great  poet  at  the  age 
when  men  are  usually  so  puny,  have,  like  Chateau- 
briand, like  all  men  of  genuine  talent,  been  com- 
pelled to  combat  the  envious,  ambuscaded  behind 
the  pillars  or  crouching  in  the  subterranean  caverns 
of  the  newspaper.  Therefore  do  I  desire  that  your 
victorious  name  should  participate  in  the  victory  of 
this  work,  which  1  dedicate  to  you,  and  which,  in 
the  view  of  some  people,  is  a  manifestation  of  cour- 
age as  well  as  a  narrative  faithful  to  the  truth. 
Did  not  journalists,  like  marquises,  financiers, 
doctors  and  lawyers,  belong  to  Moliere  and  his 
stage  ?  Why  then  should  the  COMEDIE  HUMAINE, 
which  castigat  ridendo  mores,  omit  a  single  power, 
when  the  Parisian  press  omits  none? 

I  am  happy,  monsieur,  to  be  able  to  subscribe 
myself 

Your  sincere  admirer  and  friend, 

De  Balzac. 


(3) 


PART  FIRST 
THE  TWO  POETS 

* 

At  the  time  when  this  narrative  begins,  the  Stan- 
hope press  and  the  ink-distributing  cylinders  had 
not  yet  been  adopted  in  the  small  provincial  print- 
ing offices.  Despite  the  special  circumstances 
which  establish  a  direct  connection  between  An- 
gouleme  and  Parisian  printing  offices,  that  town 
still  used  the  wooden  presses  to  which  the  language 
is  indebted  for  the  expression,  "to  make  the  press 
groan,"  an  expression  which  now  has  no  applica- 
tion. The  old-fashioned  offices  there  still  made  use 
of  leather  balls  rubbed  over  with  ink,  with  which 
one  of  the  pressmen  besmeared  the  type.  The 
movable  plate  whereon  is  placed  the  form  filled  with 
letters,  upon  which  the  sheet  of  paper  is  laid,  was 
still  of  stone  and  justified  its  name  of  marble.  The 
all-devouring  machine  presses  of  to-day  have  so 
completely  banished  all  memory  of  this  mechanism, 
to  which  we  owe,  despite  its  imperfections,  the 
noble  volumes  of  Elzevir,  Plantin,  Aide  and  Didot, 
that  it  is  necessary  to  mention  the  old-fashioned 
tools,    for    which    Jerome-Nicolas    Sechard   had   a 

(5) 


6  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

superstitious  affection,  for  they  play  a  part  in  this 
great  petty  narrative. 

This  Sechard  was  a  former  journeyman  pressman, 
one  of  those  whom  the  workmen  whose  duty  it  is  to 
assemble  the  type,  call,  in  their  printers'  slang,  a 
bear.  The  constant  passing  back  and  forth  from  ink- 
well to  press  and  from  press  to  ink-well,  not  unlike 
the  movements  of  a  bear  in  his  cage,  was  un- 
doubtedly responsible  for  that  sobriquet.  In  re- 
venge, the  bears  called  the  compositors  monkeys, 
because  of  the  incessant  exercise  those  gentlemen 
go  through  in  seizing  the  letters  in  the  hundred  and 
fifty-two  little  cases  in  which  they  are  contained. 

In  the  disastrous  days  of  1793,  Sechard,  then 
about  fifty  years  old,  was  a  married  man.  His  age 
and  the  fact  of  his  marriage  exempted  him  from  the 
great  conscription,  which  drafted  almost  all  the 
mechanics  into  the  armies.  The  old  pressman  was 
left  alone  in  the  office,  the  proprietor,  otherwise 
called  the  innocent,  having  recently  died,  leaving  a 
childless  widow.  The  establishment  seemed  to  be 
threatened  with  immediate  destruction:  the  solitary 
bear  was  incapable  of  transforming  himself  into  a 
monkey;  for,  printer  though  he  was,  he  could 
neither  read  nor  write.  Heedless  of  his  incapacity, 
a  representative  of  the  people,  in  eager  haste  to 
spread  broadcast  the  glorious  decrees  of  the  Con- 
vention, invested  the  pressman  with  the  commis- 
sion of  master  printer,  and  set  his  presses  at  work. 
Having  accepted  this  perilous  commission,  Citizen 
Sechard  indemnified  his  master's  widow  by  paying 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  7 

her  for  the  stock  in  trade  of  the  office,  at  about 
half  its  value,  with  his  wife's  savings.  That 
was  nothing.  He  was  required  to  print  the 
republican  decrees  without  error  or  delay.  At 
that  embarrassing  conjuncture,  Jerome-Nicolas 
Sechard  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  a  noble  Mar- 
seillais,  who  did  not  wish  to  emigrate,  or  to  lose  his 
estates,  or  to  show  himself  for  fear  of  losing  his 
head,  and  who  could  not  procure  bread  to  eat  un- 
less he  turned  his  hand  to  some  kind  of  work.  So 
Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Maucombe  donned  the  hum- 
ble jacket  of  a  provincial  printer:  he,  himself, 
composed,  read  and  corrected  the  decrees  which 
called  for  the  infliction  of  the  death-penalty  upon 
citizens  who  harbored  nobles ;  the  bear,  now  an  in- 
nocent, struck  them  off  and  caused  them  to  be  pla- 
carded through  the  town;  and  they  both  escaped 
safe  and  sound. 

In  1795,  the  hurricane  of  the  Revolution  having 
passed  over,  Nicolas  Sechard  was  obliged  to  find 
another  Master  Jacques,  who  could  act  as  composi- 
tor and  as  proof-reader.  An  abbe,  who  became  a 
bishop  under  the  Restoration,  but  who  refused  at  this 
time  to  take  the  oath,  replaced  the  Comte  de  Mau- 
combe until  the  day  that  the  First  Consul  re-estab- 
lished the  Catholic  religion.  The  count  and  the 
bishop  met  at  a  later  period  on  the  same  bench  in 
the  Chamber  of  Peers.  Although  in  1802,  Jerome- 
Nicolas  Sechard  was  no  better  able  to  read  and 
write  than  in  1793,  he  had  laid  by  sufficient  stuff  to 
be  able  to  hire  a  proof-reader.     The  journeyman 


8  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

with  so  little  thought  for  the  future  had  become  an 
object  of  awe  to  his  bears  and  monkeys.  Avarice 
begins  where  poverty  ends.  On  the  day  that  the 
possibility  of  making  his  fortune  first  dawned  upon 
the  printer,  self-interest  developed  in  him  a  thor- 
ough, but  grasping,  suspicious  and  far-sighted  un- 
derstanding of  his  trade.  His  method  of  conducting 
the  business  snapped  its  fingers  at  theory.  He  had 
finally  acquired  the  power  of  estimating  at  a  glance 
the  price  of  a  page  or  a  sheet  according  to  the  style 
of  letters  used.  He  proved  to  his  illiterate  cus- 
tomers that  it  was  more  expensive  to  move  large 
letters  than  small  ones;  or,  if  they  wanted  small 
ones,  he  said  that  they  were  harder  to  handle. 
Composition  being  a  branch  of  typography  of  which 
he  had  no  comprehension,  he  was  so  afraid  of  mak- 
ing mistakes  against  himself,  that  he  never  made 
any  but  one-sided  bargains.  If  his  compositors 
worked  by  the  hour  he  never  took  his  eyes  off  them. 
If  he  knew  that  a  paper  manufacturer  was  in  em- 
barrassed circumstances,  he  would  buy  his  stock  at 
a  low  price  and  store  it.  In  1802  he  had  saved 
enough  to  purchase  the  house  in  which  the  printing 
office  had  been  located  from  time  immemorial. 
Fortune  smiled  upon  him  in  every  direction :  he 
lost  his  wife,  and  he  had  only  one  son ;  he  placed 
him  at  the  town  lyceum,  less  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  him  an  education  than  to  prepare  a  successor 
to  himself;  he  treated  him  harshly  in  order  to  pro- 
long the  duration  of  his  paternal  authority;  thus,  on 
holidays,  he  set  him  at  work  at  the  case,  bidding 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  9 

him  learn  to  earn  his  own  living  so  that  he  could 
some  day  reward  his  poor  father  who  was  bleeding 
himself  to  give  him  an  education. 

At  the  abbe's  departure,  Sechard  chose  for  his 
proof-reader  that  one  of  his  four  compositors  who 
was  recommended  by  the  future  bishop  as  being  no 
less  honest  than  intelligent.  In  this  way  the  good- 
man  prepared  for  the  time  when  his  son  should  be 
competent  to  undertake  the  management  of  the 
establishment,  which  would  expand  rapidly  in  his 
young  and  skilful  hands. 

David  Sechard  took  very  high  rank  in  his  studies 
at  the  lyceum  at  Angouleme.  Although  a  bear,  who 
had  made  his  own  way  without  knowledge  or  edu- 
cation, and  entertaining  a  sovereign  contempt  for 
science,  Pere  Sechard  sent  his  son  to  Paris  to  study 
scientific  typography;  but  he  was  so  emphatic  in 
his  injunctions  to  him  to  lay  by  a  handsome  sum  in 
a  city  which  he  called  the  paradise  of  workmen,  bid- 
ding him  not  to  rely  upon  the  paternal  purse,  that 
he  must  have  seen  some  way  of  attaining  his  own 
ends  in  this  sojourn  in  the  land  of  sapience.  While 
learning  his  trade,  David  also  completed  his  educa- 
tion at  Paris.  The  Didots'  proof-reader  became  a 
savant.  In  the  latter  part  of  1819  David  Sechard, 
whose  life  in  Paris  had  not  cost  his  father  a  sou, 
left  the  capital  at  the  old  man's  summons,  to  return 
to  the  province  and  assume  the  management  of  the 
business.  Nicolas  Sechard's  printing  office  pub- 
lished at  that  time  the  only  sheet  in  the  department 
containing  legal  announcements,  and  also  did  all  the 


IO  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

printing  for  the  prefecture  and  the  diocese,  three 
sources  of  revenue  upon  which  an  energetic  young 
man  might  hope  to  found  a  handsome  fortune. 

Just  at  that  time  the  brothers  Cointet,  paper  man- 
ufacturers, purchased  the  second  printer's  privilege 
in  the  residency  of  Angouleme,  which,  up  to  that 
time,  old  Sechard  had  succeeded  in  keeping  abso- 
lutely inactive  by  favor  of  the  military  crises 
which,  under  the  Empire,  held  all  industrial  prog- 
ress in  check;  for  that  reason,  he  had  not  deemed 
it  worth  his  while  to  purchase  it,  and  his  parsimony 
was  one  cause  of  the  downfall  of  the  old  printing 
house.  When  he  heard  the  news,  old  Sechard  re- 
flected with  great  satisfaction  that  the  contest  be- 
tween his  establishment  and  that  of  the  Cointets 
would  have  to  be  carried  on  by  his  son  and  not  by 
himself. 

"I  should  have  gone  to  the  wall,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "but  a  young  man  brought  up  by  Messieurs 
Didot  will  pull  through." 

The  septuagenarian  sighed  for  the  time  when  he 
could  lead  a  life  of  leisure.  Although  he  had  but 
little  knowledge  of  scientific  typography,  he  was 
supposed  to  be  remarkably  strong  in  an  art  which 
has  been  jestingly  dubbed  by  mechanics,  tipsifica- 
tion ;  an  art  much  esteemed  by  the  divine  creator 
of  Pantagruel,  but  the  cultivation  of  which,  under 
the  persecution  of  so-called  temperance  societies, 
is  more  and  more  neglected  from  day  to  day. 
Jer6me-Nicolas  Sechard,  faithful  to  the  destiny  his 
name  had  created  for  him,   was  consumed  by  an 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  II 

inextinguishable  thirst.  His  wife  had  long  kept 
within  reasonable  bounds  this  passion  for  the  ex- 
pressed juice  of  the  grape,  a  passion  so  natural  to 
bears,  that  Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand  observed  its 
existence  in  the  genuine  American  bear;  but  phil- 
osophers have  remarked  that  the  habits  of  youth 
return  with  renewed  force  in  old  age.  Sechard 
afforded  a  striking  testimony  to  the  truth  of  this 
moral  law :  the  older  he  grew,  the  more  he  loved  to 
drink.  His  passion  left  traces  upon  his  ursine  face 
that  made  it  quite  unique:  his  nose  had  assumed 
the  proportions  and  the  shape  of  a  capital  A  of  triple 
canon  type,  his  veined  cheeks  resembled  vine-leaves 
covered  with  violet,  purple,  often  branching  protu- 
berances; you  would  have  said  it  was  an  enormous 
truffle  enveloped  in  autumn  vine-branches.  Hidden 
beneath  huge  eyebrows  that  resembled  bushes 
laden  with  snow,  his  little  gray  eyes,  wherein  shone 
the  crafty  gleam  of  an  avarice  that  killed  every- 
thing within  him,  even  the  impulses  of  paternity, 
preserved  their  intelligence  even  in  drunkenness. 
His  bald,  shiny  head,  with  its  scanty  fringe  of  gray 
hair,  still  curly,  reminded  one  of  the  cobblers  in 
La  Fontaine's  Fables.  He  was  short  and  paunchy, 
like  many  of  the  old  styles  of  lamp  that  consume 
more  oil  than  wick;  for  excess  in  everything  impels 
the  body  along  the  path  to  which  it  naturally  in- 
clines. Drunkenness,  like  study,  makes  the  fat 
man  fatter  and  the  thin  man  thinner. 

Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard  had  worn  for  thirty  years 
the  famous  municipal  three-cornered  hat,  which  in 


12  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

some  provinces  is  still  seen  on  the  head  of  the  town 
drummer.  His  waistcoat  and  his  trousers  were  of 
greenish  velvet,  and  he  wore  an  old  brown  frock- 
coat,  figured  cotton  stockings  and  shoes  with  silver 
buckles.  This  costume,  in  which  the  mechanic 
could  be  detected  in  the  bourgeois,  harmonized  so 
well  with  his  vices  and  his  habits,  it  was  so  ex- 
pressive of  his  life,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  good- 
man  must  have  come  into  the  world  all  dressed: 
you  could  no  more  have  imagined  him  without  his 
clothes  than  an  onion  without  its  skin.  Even  if 
the  old  printer  had  not  long  before  sufficiently  man- 
ifested his  blind  greed,  the  manner  of  his  retirement 
would  have  sufficed  to  depict  his  character.  Not- 
withstanding the  knowledge  and  experience  his  son 
was  certain  to  have  brought  back  with  him  from  the 
great  school  of  the  Didots,  he  proposed  to  drive  a 
profitable  bargain  with  him,  upon  which  he  had  long 
been  ruminating.  If  it  was  a  profitable  bargain 
for  the  father,  it  was  likely  to  be  an  unprofitable  one 
for  the  son.  But,  so  far  as  the  goodman  was  con- 
cerned, there  was  no  father  and  no  son  in  business. 
If  he  had  at  first  thought  of  David  as  his  only  child, 
he  eventually  saw  in  him  a  natural  successor  in  the 
business,  whose  interests  were  opposed  to  his:  he 
wanted  to  sell  at  a  high  price,  David  would  want  to 
buy  cheap;  ergo,  his  son  became  an  enemy  to 
conquer.  This  transformation  of  sentiment  to  per- 
sonal interest,  ordinarily  a  slow,  tortuous  and 
hypocritical  process  in  well-bred  people,  was  swift 
and  unswerving  in  the  case  of  the  old  bear,  who 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  13 

showed  how  superior  a  crafty  drunkard  is  to  a  skilled 
printer. 

When  his  son  arrived,  the  goodman  manifested 
the  commercial  affection  which  clever  men  bestow 
upon  their  dupes:  he  waited  upon  him  as  a  lover 
waits  upon  his  mistress;  he  offered  him  his  arm, 
he  told  him  where  he  must  put  his  feet  in  order  not 
to  soil  his  boots;  he  had  had  his  bed  warmed,  a  fire 
lighted  and  supper  prepared.  The  next  day,  after 
he  had  tried  to  make  his  son  tipsy  during  a  boun- 
teous dinner,  Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard,  thoroughly 
saturated  with  wine,  turned  to  his  son  with  a  Let's 
talk  business!  which  came  out  so  queerly  between 
two  hiccoughs  that  David  begged  him  to  postpone 
the  business  until  the  following  day.  The  old  bear 
was  too  well  skilled  in  turning  his  drunkenness  to  his 
own  advantage  to  abandon  a  battle  for  which  he 
had  been  making  ready  so  long.  Furthermore,  he 
said  that,  after  dragging  his  ball  and  chain  for 
fifty  years,  he  did  not  propose  to  wear  it  an  hour 
longer.  On  the  morrow,  his  son  would  be  the  inno- 
cent. 

At  this  point  it  will  be  well  perhaps  to  say  a 
word  concerning  the  Sechard  establishment.  The 
printing  office,  located  at  the  corner  of  Rue  de 
Beaulieu  and  Place  du  Murier,  was  established  on 
that  spot  toward  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV. 
Thus  the  building  had  long  been  arranged  to  suit 
the  requirements  of  that  branch  of  industry.  The 
ground  floor  formed  one  immense  room  lighted  by 
an  old  small-paned  window  on  the  street  and  by  a 


14  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

large  window  looking  on  an  interior  courtyard. 
The  office  of  the  proprietor  could  be  reached  by  an 
outside  passage  way.  But,  in  the  provinces,  the 
processes  of  printing  are  always  the  object  of  such 
eager  curiosity,  that  customers  preferred  to  enter  by 
the  glass  door  in  the  street  front,  although  they 
must  descend  several  steps,  the  floor  of  the  press- 
room being  below  the  level  of  the  sidewalk.  Vis- 
itors, agape  with  curiosity,  paid  no  heed  to  the 
inconveniences  of  the  passage  through  the  defiles  of 
the  workshop.  While  they  were  gazing  at  the 
cradles  formed  by  the  sheets  stretched  upon  cords 
hanging  from  the  ceiling,  they  would  stumble 
against  the  rows  of  cases  or  knock  their  hats  off 
against  the  iron  bars  that  supported  the  presses. 
If  they  followed  the  agile  movements  of  a  compos- 
itor darting  at  his  letters  in  the  hundred  and  fifty- 
two  compartments  of  his  case,  reading  his  copy, 
rereading  the  line  in  his  galley  and  inserting  a 
lead,  they  would  run  into  a  ream  of  damp  paper 
with  heavy  weights  upon  it,  or  strike  their  hips 
against  the  corner  of  a  bench;  all  to  the  great 
amusement  of  the  bears  and  monkeys.  No 
one  ever  arrived  without  accident  at  the  two  great 
cages  situated  at  the  farther  end  of  this  cavern, 
forming  two  dilapidated  cells  upon  the  courtyard 
side,  in  one  of  which  the  proof-reader,  in  the  other 
the  master  printer,  sat  in  state. 

The  walls  on  the  courtyard  were  agreeably  em- 
bellished with  vine-trellises,  which,  in  view  of  the 
master's  reputation,  had  an  appetizing  local  color. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  1 5 

At  the  rear,  supported  against  the  party-wall,  was 
a  dilapidated  lean-to,  where  the  paper  was  soaked 
and  cut  There  too  was  the  sink  at  which  the 
forms,  commonly  cailed  the  letter-blocks,  were 
washed  before  and  after  the  printing;  the  waste- 
pipe  discharged  a  decoction  of  ink,  which,  when 
mingled  with  the  waste  water  from  the  house,  led 
the  peasants,  who  came  there  on  market  days,  to 
believe  that  the  devil  was  in  the  habit  of  washing 
in  the  house.  The  lean-to  was  flanked  on  one  side 
by  the  kitchen,  on  the  other  by  a  woodpile.  The 
first  floor  of  the  house,  above  which  there  were  only 
two  attic  chambers,  contained  three  rooms.  The 
first,  which  was  as  long  as  the  passageway,  less  the 
cage  of  the  old  wooden  stairway,  was  lighted  by  a 
small  oblong  window  on  the  street  and  by  a  bull's- 
eye  on  the  courtyard,  and  served  the  double  purpose 
of  a  reception-room  and  a  dining-room.  The  walls 
were  whitewashed,  and  the  whole  room  was  notice- 
able by  reason  of  the  cynical  simplicity  of  commer- 
cial greed;  the  dirty  floor  had  never  been  washed; 
the  furniture  consisted  of  three  wretched  chairs,  a 
round  table  and  a  sideboard,  the  latter  placed  be- 
tween two  doors  leading  respectively  to  a  bedroom 
and  a  salon;  the  windows  and  door  were  black 
with  dirt;  the  room  was  generally  filled  with  paper, 
blank  or  printed,  and  not  infrequently  the  dessert, 
the  bottles  and  the  side  dishes  of  Jerome-Nicolas 
Sechard's  dinner  were  placed  upon  bales  of  paper. 
The  bedroom,  which  had  a  window  with  leaded 
panes  looking  on  the  courtyard,  was  hung  with  the 


l6  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

old-fashioned  tapestries  that  are  used  in  the  prov- 
inces to  decorate  the  house-fronts  on  Corpus  Christi 
Day.  There  was  a  great  four-post  bedstead,  pro- 
vided with  curtains  of  coarse  cloth,  and  a  coverlid  in 
red  serge,  two  moth-eaten  armchairs,  two  uphol- 
stered black  walnut  chairs,  an  old  secretary  and  a 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  This  room,  which  ex- 
haled an  odor  of  patriarchal  simplicity,  obscured  by 
sombre  coloring,  had  been  arranged  by  Sieur 
Rouzeau,  Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard's  predecessor  and 
master.  The  salon,  modernized  by  the  late  Madame 
Sechard,  was  embellished  with  a  hideous  wooden 
wainscoting,  painted  a  barber's  blue;  the  panels 
were  decorated  with  a  paper  representing  oriental 
scenes  in  dark-brown  on  a  white  ground;  the  furni- 
ture consisted  of  six  chairs  with  blue  sheep-skin 
seats  and  backs  made  in  the  shape  of  lyres.  The 
two  arched  windows,  which  looked  on  Place  du 
Murier,  were  without  curtains;  the  mantelpiece  had 
neither  candlesticks  nor  clock  nor  mirror.  Madame 
Sechard  died  in  the  midst  of  her  schemes  of  embel- 
lishment, and  the  bear,  failing  to  appreciate  the 
utility  of  improvements  which  brought  in  nothing, 
had  abandoned  them. 

It  was  to  this  room  that  Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard, 
pede  titubante,  led  his  son,  and  pointed  to  the  table, 
whereon  lay  an  inventory  of  the  stock  in  his  print- 
ing office,  prepared  under  his  supervision  by  the 
proof-reader. 

"Read  that,  my  boy,"  said  Jerome-Nicolas 
Sechard,  rolling  his  drunken  eyes  from  the  paper 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  17 

to  his  son  and  from  his  son  to  the  paper.  "You'll 
see  what  a  jewel  of  a  printing  office  I'm  giving 
you." 

"  'Three  wooden  presses  supported  by  iron  bars, 
with  the  beds  of  cast-iron — ' 

"An  improvement  of  mine,"  interposed  old 
Sechard. 

"  'With  all  their  appurtenances,  ink-wells,  balls 
and  benches,  etc.,  sixteen  hundred  francs!'  Why, 
father,"  said  David  Sechard,  letting  the  inventory 
fall,  "your  presses  are  old  rubbish  not  worth  a  hun- 
dred crowns,  good  for  nothing  but  to  be  burned  up." 

"Old  rubbish?"  cried  old  Sechard,  "rubbish? 
Take  the  inventory  and  let's  go  down!  You'll  see 
if  your  wretched  blacksmith  inventions  work  like 
these  good  old  well-tried  tools.  Then  you  won't 
have  the  heart  to  insult  honest  presses  that  roll  as 
smoothly  as  post-chaises,  and  will  last  all  your  life 
without  the  slightest  need  of  repair.  Rubbish! 
Yes,  rubbish  in  which  you'll  find  salt  enough  to 
cook  eggs!  rubbish  your  father  has  used  twenty 
years  and  that  has  helped  him  to  make  you  what 
you  are." 

The  father  shuffled  down  the  rickety,  worn-out, 
shaking  staircase  without  falling  through ;  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  passageway  that  led  to  the  work- 
room, rushed  to  the  first  of  his  presses,  which  he 
had  craftily  had  oiled  and  cleaned,  and  pointed  to 
the  strong  oaken  cheeks,  which  his  apprentice  had 
rubbed  until  they  shone. 

"Isn't  that  a  love  of  a  press?"  he  asked. 
2 


l8  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

There  was  a  wedding  invitation  on  the  press. 
The  old  bear  lowered  the  trisket  on  the  tympan,  and 
the  tympan  on  the  slab,  which  he  slid  under  the 
press ;  he  drew  the  bar,  loosened  the  cord  to  draw 
back  the  slab,  and  raised  tympan  and  frisket 
with  the  agility  of  a  young  bear.  The  press,  thus 
handled,  gave  forth  a  sweet  little  note  such  as  a 
bird  might  have  uttered  as  it  flew  away  after  strik- 
ing against  a  window. 

"Is  there  an  English  press  capable  of  doing  such 
work  as  that  ?"  said  the  father  to  his  astonished  son. 

He  ran  to  the  second  and  third  presses  in  suc- 
cession and  went  through  the  same  performance 
upon  each  of  them  with  equal  skill.  Upon  the  last, 
his  hazy  eye  discovered  a  spot  the  apprentice  had 
overlooked;  the  drunkard,  having  sworn  roundly, 
took  the  skirt  of  his  coat  to  rub  it,  as  a  groom 
polishes  the  coat  of  a  horse  that  is  for  sale. 

"With  these  presses  and  without  a  proof-reader, 
you  can  earn  your  nine  thousand  francs  a  year, 
David.  As  your  future  partner,  I  object  to  your 
replacing  them  by  those  accursed  cast-iron  presses 
that  wear  out  the  type.  You  shouted  miracles  in 
Paris  when  you  saw  the  invention  of  that  infernal 
Englishman,  an  enemy  of  France,  who  has  tried  to 
make  the  fortune  of  founders.  So  you  wanted  to 
have  Stanhopes,  did  you?  a  fig  for  your  Stanhopes, 
which  cost  twenty-five  hundred  francs  each,  almost 
twice  as  much  as  my  three  jewels  together  are 
worth,  and  break  the  backs  of  the  letters  by  their 
lack   of   elasticity.      I'm  not  a  learned    man   like 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  19 

you,  but  just  remember  this:  the  life  of  the  Stan- 
hopes means  the  death  of  the  type.  These  three 
presses  will  do  you  good  service,  the  work  will  be 
done  properly,  and  that's  all  the  good  people  of 
Angouleme  want.  Whether  you  print  with  iron  or 
wood,  with  gold  or  silver,  they  won't  pay  a  sou 
more." 

"  'Item,'  David  read  on,  "  'five  thousand  pounds 
of  type  from  the  foundry  of  Monsieur  Vaflard — '  " 

At  that  name,  the  pupil  of  the  Didots  could  not 
restrain  a  smile. 

"Oh!  laugh,  laugh!  After  twelve  years,  the 
type  are  still  as  good  as  new.  That's  what  I  call  a 
founder !  Monsieur  Vaflard's  an  honest  man  who 
supplies  durable  goods;  and  to  my  mind  the  best 
founder  is  the  one  you  have  to  call  on  least  often." 

"  'Appraised  at  ten  thousand  francs,'  "  continued 
David.  "Ten  thousand  francs,  father!  why  that's 
at  forty  sous  a  pound,  and  Messieurs  Didot  only 
charge  thirty-six  sous  a  pound  for  their  new  pica. 
Your  nail-heads  are  only  worth  the  value  of  the 
castings,  ten  sous  a  pound." 

"You  give  the  name  of  'nail-heads'  to  the  italics, 
running-hand  and  roundhand  of  Monsieur  Gille, 
formerly  printer  to  the  Emperor,  type  that  is  worth 
six  francs  a  pound,  masterpieces  of  casting  pur- 
chased five  years  ago,  and  some  of  the  pieces  with 
the  white  of  the  casting  still  on  them:  see!" 

Old  Sechard  picked  up  several  handfuls  of  "sorts" 
that  had  never  been  used  and  showed  them  to  him. 

"I'm   no  scholar,  I  don't  know  how  to  read  or 


20  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

write,  but  I  know  enough  to  know  that  the  Gille 
written  type  is  the  father  of  your  Didots'  English 
type.  Here's  a  roundhand,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
a  case  and  taking  out  an  M,  "a  case  of  pica  round- 
hand  that's  not  yet  out  of  use." 

David  saw  that  it  was  impossible  to  argue  with 
his  father.  He  must  either  agree  to  everything  or 
nothing;  it  must  be  yes  or  no.  The  old  bear  had 
included  everything  in  the  inventory,  even  to  the 
cords  in  the  drying-room.  The  smallest  chase,  the 
shelves,  the  trays,  the  stone  and  the  scrubbing 
brushes,  everything  was  figured  with  the  scrupulous 
exactitude  of  a  miser.  The  whole  amounted  to 
thirty  thousand  francs,  including  the  license  as 
master  printer  and  the  good-will.  David  deliber- 
ated as  to  whether  it  was  or  was  not  a  practicable 
opportunity.  Seeing  his  son  sitting  mute  over  the 
figures,  old  Sechard  became  uneasy ;  for  he  preferred 
a  violent  dispute  to  silent  acquiescence.  In  bar- 
gains of  this  sort,  discussion  indicates  a  capable 
negotiator  defending  his  interests.  The  man  who 
agrees  to  everything  pays  for  nothing,  thought  old 
Sechard.  Watching  his  son's  countenance  the 
while,  he  went  through  the  enumeration  of  the 
sorry  accessories  essential  to  the  working  of  a  pro- 
vincial printing  office;  he  led  him  to  a  polishing 
press,  a  cutting  machine  for  the  town  work,  and 
boasted  of  their  long  use  and  their  durability. 

"Old  tools  are  always  the  best,"  he  said.  "A 
printer  ought  to  be  willing  to  pay  more  for  them 
than  for  new,  as  gold-beaters  do." 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  21 

Hideous  vignettes  representing  Hymens  and 
Cupids,  dead  men  lifting  the  stones  from  their 
sepulchres,  describing  a  V  or  an  M,  enormous  bor- 
ders with  masks  for  play  bills,  became,  by  virtue 
of  the  vinous  eloquence  of  Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard, 
objects  of  immense  value.  He  told  his  son  that  the 
habits  of  provincials  were  so  deeply  rooted  that  he 
would  try  in  vain  to  arouse  a  taste  for  anything 
finer.  He,  Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard,  had  tried  to 
sell  them  better  almanacs  than  the  Double  Liegois 
printed  on  sugar  paper!  but  they  preferred  the  gen- 
uine Double  Liegois  to  the  most  magnificent  alma- 
nacs. David  would  soon  realize  the  value  of  these 
old-fashioned  things  when  he  found  he  could  sell 
them  for  more  than  the  most  expensive  novelties. 

"Ah!  my  boy,  the  province  is  the  province,  and 
Paris  is  Paris.  If  a  man  from  L'Houmeau  comes  to 
order  his  wedding  invitations  and  you  print  them 
for  him  without  a  cupid  and  garlands  of  roses,  he 
won't  believe  he's  married,  and  he'll  bring  them 
back  to  you  if  he  sees  nothing  but  an  M,  such  as 
your  Messieurs  Didot  would  give  him;  they  may 
be  the  glory  of  typography,  but  their  inventions 
won't  be  adopted  in  the  provinces  in  less  than  a 
hundred  years.     And  there  you  are." 

Generous-minded  men  are  very  poor  hands  at 
driving  a  bargain.  David  was  one  of  those  shy, 
affectionate  creatures  who  shrink  from  a  dispute, 
and  who  yield  at  once  when  their  opponent  appeals 
to  their  heart.  His  exalted  sentiments  and  the 
power  the  old  drunkard  had  retained  over  him  made 


22  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

him  still  more  unfit  to  sustain  a  discussion  concern- 
ing money  matters  with  his  father,  especially  when 
he  credited  him  with  the  best  intentions;    for  at 
first  he  attributed  the  voracity  of  selfishness  to  the 
old  pressman's  attachment  to  his  tools.     However, 
as  Jerome-Nicolas  Sechard  had  purchased  the  whole 
establishment  from    the   widow   Rouzeau   for   ten 
thousand  francs  in  assignats,  and  as  thirty  thousand 
francs  was  a  most  exorbitant  price  for  them  in  their 
present  condition,  he  cried: 
"Father,  you  are  robbing  me!" 
"I,   who   gave   you   your    life? — "said   the   old 
drunkard  raising  his  hand  toward  the  drying-room. 
"Why,  David,  what  do  you  value  the  license  at? 
Do  you  know  what  the  legal  notices  are  worth  at 
ten  sous  a  line, — a  privilege  that  brought  in  five 
hundred  francs  last  month,  all  by  itself?     Just  open 
the  books,  my  boy,  and  see  what  the  advertisements 
and  lists  of  the  prefecture  produce  and  the  custom 
of  the  mayor's  office  and  the  bishopric!     You're  a 
sluggard  who  doesn't  want  to  make  his  fortune. 
You're  haggling  over  the  horse  that  will  take  you 
to  some  fine  estate  like  Marsac." 

To  the  inventory  were  appended  articles  of  part- 
nership between  the  father  and  son.  The  kind 
father  leased  his  house  to  the  firm  for  twelve  hun- 
dred francs,  although  he  had  paid  only  six  thou- 
sand for  it,  and  he  reserved  for  himself  one  of  the 
two  attic  rooms.  Until  David  Sechard  should  pay 
the  thirty  thousand  francs,  the  profits  were  to  be 
equally  divided;    on   the   day  when   he   paid   his 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  23 

father  that  sum,  he  was  to  become  the  sole 
proprietor  of  the  business.  David  formed  an  esti- 
mate of  the  value  of  the  license,  the  good-will  and 
the  journal,  paying  no  heed  to  the  stock  and 
machinery;  he  believed  that  he  could  see  his  way 
to  make  money  and  he  accepted  the  conditions. 
The  father,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  pettifog- 
ging shrewdness  of  the  peasantry,  and  knowing 
nothing  of  the  far-reaching  projects  of  Parisian  men 
of  business,  was  amazed  at  so  prompt  a  conclusion. 

"Can  my  son  have  got  rich?"  he  thought,  "or  is 
he  now  thinking  up  some  way  of  not  paying  me?" 

With  that  conjecture  in  his  mind,  he  questioned 
him  as  to  whether  he  had  brought  any  money  home, 
so  that  he  might  secure  it  as  a  payment  on  account. 
The  father's  inquisitiveness  aroused  the  son's  sus- 
picions, and  he  maintained  a  close  reserve.  The 
next  day,  old  Sechard  bade  his  apprentice  carry  his 
furniture  to  his  room  on  the  second  floor,  intending 
to  send  it  to  his  house  in  the  country  by  wagons 
that  were  returning  in  that  direction  empty.  He 
turned  over  to  his  son  the  three  rooms  on  the  first 
floor  stripped  perfectly  bare,  just  as  he  put  him  in 
possession  of  the  printing  office  without  giving  him 
a  centime  to  pay  the  workmen.  When  David  urged 
his  father,  as  a  partner,  to  contribute  to  the  fund 
that  was  essential  for  running  the  office  for  their 
mutual  benefit,  the  old  pressman  feigned  ignorance. 
He  was  not  obliged,  he  said,  to  furnish  money  when 
he  had  furnished  the  plant;  his  contribution  was  all 
made.      Cornered  by  his  son's  logic,   he   retorted 


24  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

that,  when  he  bought  the  plant  from  the  widow 
Rouzeau,  he  had  made  his  way  without  a  sou.  If 
he,  a  poor  journeyman,  without  any  sort  of  knowl- 
edge, had  succeeded,  a  pupil  of  the  Didots  ought  to 
do  even  better.  Furthermore,  David  had  earned 
money  because  of  the  education  his  old  father  had 
paid  for  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow;  he  might  well 
put  it  to  some  use  to-day. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  funds?"  he  said, 
returning  to  the  charge  in  the  hope  of  gaining  some 
light  upon  the  problem  which  his  son's  silence  had 
left  unsolved  the  night  before. 

"Why,  have  I  not  had  to  live?  haven't  I  bought 
books?"  replied  David  indignantly. 

"Ah!  you  have  bought  books?  You  won't  make 
a  good  business  man.  People  who  buy  books  are 
hardly  fit  to  print  them,"  retorted  the  bear. 

David  experienced  the  most  horrible  of  humilia- 
tions, that  caused  by  the  degradation  of  one's  father : 
he  was  forced  to  submit  to  the  flood  of  base,  cow- 
ardly, tearful,  commercial  reasons  with  which  the 
old  miser  supported  his  refusal.  He  forced  his  sor- 
row back  into  his  heart,  realizing  that  he  was  alone 
and  unsupported,  and  finding  a  vile  speculator  in 
his  father,  whom,  through  philosophical  curiosity, 
he  determined  to  probe  to  the  bottom.  He  called 
his  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  had  never  asked  for 
an  account  of  his  mother's  fortune.  If  that  fortune 
was  not  to  enter  into  the  matter  of  payment  for  the 
plant,  it  should  at  least  be  used  for  the  expenses  of 
carrying  on  the  business. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  25 

"Your  mother's  fortune?"  said  old  Sechard; 
"why  her  wit  and  her  beauty  were  her  fortune!" 

From  that  reply  David  gauged  his  father's  char- 
acter completely,  and  realized  that,  in  order  to 
obtain  an  account,  he  would  be  compelled  to  enter 
upon  an  expensive,  interminable,  degrading  lawsuit. 
The  noble  heart  accepted  the  burden  that  was  cast 
upon  it,  for  he  knew  how  difficult  it  would  be  for 
him  to  fulfil  his  agreements  with  his  father. 

"I  will  work,"  he  said  to  himself.  "After  all,  if 
I  have  bad  luck,  it's  no  more  than  the  goodman  him- 
self had.  Besides,  I  shall  really  be  working  for 
myself." 

"I  leave  you  a  great  treasure,"  said  the  father, 
disturbed  by  his  son's  silence. 

David  inquired  what  the  treasure  might  be. 

"Marion,"  was  the  reply. 

Marion  was  a  stout  country  girl,  whose  services 
were  indispensable  in  carrying  on  the  printing 
office;  she  soaked  the  paper  and  cut  it,  did  the 
errands  and  the  cooking  and  washing,  unloaded  the 
wagons  of  paper,  collected  the  money  and  cleaned 
the  rolls.  If  Marion  had  known  how  to  read,  old 
Sechard  would  have  made  a  compositor  of  her. 

The  old  man  set  out  on  foot  for  the  country. 
Although  highly  pleased  with  his  sale,  which  he 
disguised  under  the  name  of  partnership,  he  was 
anxious  as  to  his  means  of  obtaining  payment. 
After  the  agonizing  suspense  of  a  sale  comes  always 
that  of  its  completion.  All  the  passions  are  essen- 
tially Jesuitical.     This  man,  who  deemed  education 


26  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

useless,  forced  himself  to  believe  in  the  influence  of 
education.  He  based  his  hopes  of  realizing  his 
thirty  thousand  francs  on  the  ideas  of  honor  that 
education  had  probably  developed  in  his  son. 
David,  being  a  well  brought-up  youth,  would  sweat 
blood  and  water  to  fulfil  his  undertakings,  his 
knowledge  would  suggest  ways  and  means,  he  had 
shown  himself  to  be  actuated  by  praiseworthy  sen- 
timents, and  he  would  pay!  Many  fathers,  who 
act  in  this  way,  believe  that  they  have  acted  as 
fathers  should  and  old  Sechard  had  succeeded  in  so 
persuading  himself  by  the  time  he  arrived  at  his 
vineyard  at  Marsac,  a  small  village  four  leagues 
from  Angouleme. 

This  estate,  upon  which  the  last  owner  had  built 
an  attractive  little  house,  had  been  added  to  from 
year  to  year  since  1809,  when  the  old  bear  pur- 
chased it.  There  he  laid  aside  the  cares  of  the 
printing-press  for  those  of  the  wine-press,  and  he 
had,  as  he  himself  said,  been  too  long  among  the 
vines  not  to  know  a  thing  or  two  about  them.  Dur- 
ing the  first  year  of  his  retirement,  Pere  Sechard 
exhibited  an  anxious  face  over  his  vine  poles.;  for 
he  was  always  in  his  vineyard,  just  as  he  used  to 
be. always  in  his  press-room.  The  thirty  thousand 
francs  he  almost  despaired  of  receiving  intoxicated 
him  more  than  the  September  wine;  he  constantly 
imagined  that  he  had  them  between  his  fingers. 
The  less  reason  he  had  to  expect  the  money,  the 
greater  his  longing  to  see  it  safely  stowed  away  in 
his  strong-box.     So  he  often  made  hurried  trips  from 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  2^ 

Marsac  to  Angouleme,  drawn  thither  by  his  anxiety. 
He  would  climb  the  steps  up  the  cliff  on  whose  sum- 
mit the  town  is  built,  and  go  at  once  to  the  press- 
room to  see  if  his  son  were  going  out  of  business. 
But  the  presses  were  always  in  their  places.  The 
only  apprentice,  with  his  paper  cap  on  his  head, 
was  scraping  the  dirt  off  the  rolls.  The  old  bear 
would  hear  the  squeak  of  a  press  upon  some  invita- 
tion, he  would  recognize  his  old  type,  and  see  his 
son  and  the  proof-reader,  each  in  his  cage,  reading 
what  the  bear  took  for  proofs.  Having  dined  with 
David,  he  would  return  to  Marsac,  ruminating  over 
his  fears. 

Avarice,  like  love,  has  the  gift  of  second  sight  as 
to  future  contingencies,  it  scents  them  and  hurries 
them  on.  When  he  was  away  from  the  press-room, 
where  the  sight  of  his  tools  fascinated  him,  taking 
him  back  to  the  days  when  he  made  his  fortune, 
the  vinegrower  recalled  ominous  symptoms  of  in- 
activity in  his  son.  The  name  of  Coiniet  Frlres 
frightened  him,  he  fancied  that  he  saw  it  overshad- 
owing that  of  Sechard  ei  Fits.  In  short,  the  old 
man  scented  the  wind  of  misfortune.  His  presenti- 
ment was  well-founded:  disaster  was  hovering  over 
the  house  of  Sechard.  But  misers  have  a  god. 
Through  a  combination  of  unforeseen  circumstances, 
that  god  was  destined  to  drop  the  price  of  the 
usurious  sale  into  the  old  drunkard's  purse. 

The  fall  of  the  Sechard  establishment,  notwith- 
standing its  elements  of  prosperity,  was  due  to 
the  following  reason.     Indifferent  to  the  religious 


28  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

reaction  which  the  Restoration  produced  in  the  gov- 
ernment, and  equally  indifferent  to  the  cause  of 
liberalism,  David  maintained  a  most  injudicious 
neutrality  in  political  and  religious  matters.  It 
was  a  time  when  provincial  tradesmen  were  com- 
pelled to  profess  some  opinion  in  order  to  have  any 
customers,  and  one  must  choose  between  liberal 
and  royalist  tenets.  A  passion  that  assailed  David's 
heart,  and  his  absorption  in  scientific  investigations, 
together  with  his  naturally  noble  character,  kept 
him  from  that  keen  thirst  for  gain  which  constitutes 
the  true  tradesman,  and  which  would  have  led  him 
to  study  the  points  of  difference  between  the  Parisian 
method  of  doing  business  and  that  in  vogue  in 
the  provinces.  The  lines  of  demarcation  that  are 
so  sharply  marked  in  the  departments,  disappear  in 
the  constant  movement  of  Paris. 

The  brothers  Cointet  adopted  monarchical  opin- 
ions, they  fasted  ostentatiously,  they  haunted  the 
cathedral,  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of  the 
priests,  and  reprinted  the  first  religious  books  of 
which  the  supply  ran  short.  Thus  the  Cointets 
took  the  lead  in  that  lucrative  branch  of  the  trade, 
and  slanderously  accused  David  Sechard  of  liber- 
alism and  atheism.  How,  they  asked,  could  anyone 
employ  a  man,  whose  father  was  a  Septembrist,  a 
drunkard,  a  Bonapartist,  an  old  miser  who  would 
die  sooner  or  later  and  leave  heaps  of  gold  ?  They 
were  poor  and  burdened  with  families,  while  David 
was  a  bachelor  and  would  be  immensely  rich;  that 
was  the  reason  that  he  took  things  so  easily,  etc. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  29 

Influenced  by  these  accusations  against  David,  the 
prefecture  and  the  bishopric  finally  transferred  the 
privilege  of  doing  such  printing  as  they  had  to  do, 
to  the  brothers  Cointet.  Soon  these  grasping 
rivals,  emboldened  by  David's  indifference,  estab- 
lished a  second  journal  of  legal  announcements. 
The  old  office  was  thus  reduced  to  the  town  printing, 
and  the  profits  of  its  journal  of  announcements  were 
cut  down  one-half.  Having  realized  a  considerable 
sum  on  their  church  books  and  religious  publica- 
tions, the  Cointets  soon  proposed  to  the  Sechards 
that  the  latter  should  sell  them  their  journal,  so 
that  the  departmental  and  legal  announcements 
might  all  appear  in  the  same  sheet.  David  had  no 
sooner  transmitted  this  proposition  to  his  father 
than  the  old  vinegrower,  already  alarmed  at  the 
progress  made  by  the  Cointet  establishment,  rushed 
from  Marsac  to  Place  du  Murier  with  the  celerity 
of  the  crow  that  has  scented  the  dead  bodies  lying 
on  a  field  of  battle. 

"Let  me  handle  the  Cointets,  don't  you  meddle 
in  this  business,"  he  said  to  his  son.  The  old  man 
soon  detected  the  purpose  of  the  Cointets;  he 
frightened  them  by  his  keen  insight.  His  son  was 
on  the  point  of  doing  a  foolish  thing  which  he  had 
come  there  to  prevent,  he  said. 

"What  will  our  custom  have  to  rest  upon,  if  he 
gives  up  our  journal  ?  The  solicitors,  the  notaries, 
all  the  tradesmen  of  L'Houmeau  are  liberals;  the 
Cointets  have  tried  to  injure  the  Sechards  by  accus- 
ing them  of  liberalism,  and  in  that  way  they  have 


30  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

prepared  a  plank  of  salvation  for  them;  the  liberal 
announcements  will  still  be  published  by  the 
Sechards!  Sell  the  journal? — why  we  might  as 
well  sell  the  stock  in  trade  and  the  license.'' 

He  thereupon  asked  the  Cointets  to  buy  the  plant 
for  sixty  thousand  francs,  in  order  not  to  ruin  his 
son ;  he  loved  his  son,  he  would  defend  his  son. 
The  vinegrower  used  his  son  as  peasants  use  their 
wives:  whether  his  son  was  willing  or  not,  he  at 
last  led  the  Cointets,  extorting  from  them  one  offer 
after  another,  to  give  twenty-two  thousand  francs 
for  the  Journal  de  la  Charente.  But  David  was  to 
bind  himself  never  to  print  a  journal  of  any 
description,  under  a  penalty  of  thirty  thousand 
francs.  This  sale  was  the  suicide  of  the  Sechard 
printing  office;  but  the  old  vinegrower  was  but 
little  disturbed  by  that  fact.  After  the  theft  comes 
always  the  murder.  The  goodman  proposed  to  apply 
this  sum  in  part  payment  for  his  plant;  and,  in 
order  to  make  sure  of  it,  he  would  have  thrown  in 
David  to  boot,  especially  as  that  burdensome  son 
was  really  entitled  to  half  of  the  unhoped-for  treas- 
ure. In  return,  the  generous  father  turned  over  the 
printing  office  to  his  son,  but  still  insisted  upon  his 
rent  of  twelve  hundred  francs. 

After  the  sale  of  the  journal  to  Cointet,  the  old 
man  rarely  came  to  the  town,  alleging  his  ad- 
vanced age  as  an  excuse;  but  the  real  reason  was 
his  lack  of  interest  in  an  establishment  that  no 
longer  belonged  to  him.  He  could  not,  however, 
entirely   renounce   his  old  affection   for  his  tools. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  31 

When  his  business  took  him  to  AngoulSme,  it 
would  have  been  very  hard  to  say  whether  his 
wooden  presses  or  his  son,  from  whom  he  went 
through  the  form  of  demanding  his  rent,  were  more 
potent  in  attracting  him  to  his  house.  His  former 
proof-reader,  who  was  now  employed  in  that 
capacity  by  the  Cointets,  was  able  to  explain  this 
paternal  generosity;  he  said  that  the  old  fox,  by 
allowing  the  rent  to  accumulate,  had  in  view  the 
right  to  intervene,  as  a  privileged  creditor,  in  the 
settlement  of  his  son's  affairs. 


David  Sechard's  indifference  was  attributable  to 
certain  causes  which  will  serve  to  depict  the  young 
man's  character.  Some  days  after  his  installation 
in  his  father's  printing  office,  he  had  fallen  in  with 
one  of  his- college  friends,  then  in  utterly  destitute 
circumstances.  This  friend  of  David  Sechard  was 
a  young  man  of  about  twenty-one,  named  Lucien 
Chardon,  the  son  of  a  former  surgeon  in  the  repub- 
lican army,  who  was  incapacitated  for  further  ser- 
vice by  a  severe  wound.  Nature  had  made  the 
elder  Chardon  a  chemist  and  chance  had  established 
him  at  Angouleme  as  a  druggist.  Death  came 
upon  him  in  the  midst  of  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions for  exploiting  a  valuable  discovery,  to  which 
he  had  devoted  several  years  of  scientific  research. 
He  aimed  at  curing  every  variety  of  gout.  Gout 
is  the  disease  of  the  rich  and  the  rich  will  pay  a 
high  price  for  health  when  they  are  deprived  of  it. 
Therefore,  the  druggist  had  selected  that  particular 
problem  for  solution  among  all  those  that  presented 
themselves  to  his  mind.  Placed  between  science 
and  empiricism,  the  late  Chardon  realized  that 
science  alone  could  assure  his  fortune;  he  had  there- 
fore studied  the  causes  of  the  disease,  and  based  his 
remedy  upon  a  special  diet  which  he  varied  to  suit 
each  individual  temperament.  He  died  during  a 
3  (33) 


34  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

visit  to  Paris,  whither  he  had  gone  to  seek  the  ap- 
probation of  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and  thus  he 
lost  the  fruit  of  his  labors.  Deeming  his  fortune 
assured,  the  druggist  had  neglected  no  means  of 
perfecting  the  education  of  his  son  and  of  his  daugh- 
ter, so  that  his  family  expenses  had  constantly 
eaten  up  the  profits  of  his  pharmacy.  And  so,  not 
only  did  he  leave  his  children  in  destitute  circum- 
stances, but,  unluckily  for  them,  he  had  brought 
them  up  in  the  hope  of  a  brilliant  destiny,  which 
hope  died  with  him.  The  illustrious  Desplein, 
who  attended  him  in  his  last  illness,  watched  him 
die  in  convulsions  of  impotent  rage.  The  moving 
cause  of  this  intense  ambition  was  the  ex-surgeon's 
deep  affection  for  his  wife,  the  last  scion  of  the 
family  of  Rubempre,  whom  he  had  saved  from  the 
scaffold,  as  by  a  miracle,  in  1793.  Without  obtain- 
ing her  consent  to  the  falsehood,  he  had  gained  time 
by  saying  that  she  was  enceinie.  Having  thus  ac- 
quired a  sort  of  right  to  marry  her,  marry  her  he 
did,  notwithstanding  their  common  poverty.  Her 
children,  like  all  love  children,  had  no  other  inher- 
itance than  their  mother's  marvelous  beauty,  a  gift 
that  is  so  often  fatal  when  accompanied  by  poverty. 
Her  husband's  hopes  and  toil  and  despair,  which 
she  had  so  fully  shared,  had  wrought  prodigious 
changes  in  Madame  Chardon's  beauty,  just  as  the 
gradual  degradation  of  want  had  changed  her  man- 
ners; but  her  courage  and  her  children's  equaled 
their  misfortunes. 

The  poor  widow  sold  the  pharmacy,  which  was 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  35 

located  on  the  main  street  of  L'Houmeau,  the  prin- 
cipal suburb  of  Angouleme.  The  sum  she  received 
therefor  enabled  her  to  assure  herself  an  income 
of  three  hundred  francs,  which  was  quite  insufficient 
for  her  own  support;  but  she  and  her  daughter  ac- 
cepted their  situation  without  shame,  and  devoted 
themselves  to  such  work  as  they  could  procure. 
The  mother  nursed  women  in  childbed,  and  her 
pleasant  manners  led  to  her  being  preferred  to  all 
others  in  the  wealthy  families,  where  she  lived  with- 
out expense  to  her  children,  and  earned  twenty  sous 
per  day.  To  spare  her  son  the  humiliation  of  see- 
ing his  mother  in  such  a  plight,  she  had  taken  the 
name  of  Madame  Charlotte.  Those  persons  who 
desired  her  services  applied  to  Monsieur  Postel, 
Monsieur  Chardon's  successor. 

Lucien's  sister  was  employed  by  a  neighbor,  a 
most  respectable  woman,  much  esteemed  at 
L'Houmeau,  one  Madame  Prieur,  a  laundress,  and 
earned  about  fifteen  sous  per  day.  She  superin- 
tended the  other  girls,  and  occupied  a  sort  of  superior 
position  in  the  establishment,  which  raised  her 
slightly  above  the  grisette  class.  The  trifling  pro- 
ceeds of  their  labor,  added  to  Madame  Chardon's 
three  hundred  francs,  made  a  total  of  about  eight 
hundred  francs  a  year,  with  which  those  three  per- 
sons had  to  board  and  clothe  themselves.  Even  the 
strict  economy  with  which  the  household  was  con- 
ducted could  hardly  make  that  sum  sufficient,  as  it 
was  almost  entirely  absorbed  by  Lucien.  Madame 
Chardon  and  her  daughter  Eve  believed  in  Lucien 


36  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

as  Mahomet's  wife  believed  in  her  husband;  their 
devotion  to  the  interests  of  his  future  was  absolutely 
unlimited.  The  impoverished  family  lived  at 
L'Houmeau  in  lodgings  let  to  them  for  a  very 
moderate  sum  by  Monsieur  Chardon's  successor, 
and  situated  at  the  end  of  an  inner  court,  above  the 
laboratory.  Lucien  occupied  a  wretched  attic 
room.  Being  constantly  spurred  on  by  a  father, 
who,  in  his  passionate  inclination  for  natural 
science,  had  first  turned  his  mind  in  that  direction, 
Lucien  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  pupils  at  the 
College  of  Angouleme,  and  was  in  the  third  class 
when  David  Sechard  completed  his  studies  there. 

When  chance  brought  these  two  old  schoolmates 
together,  Lucien,  weary  of  drinking  from  the  bitter 
cup  of  poverty,  was  upon  the  point  of  adopting  one 
of  the  extreme  courses  to  which  young  men  of 
twenty  sometimes  resort.  Forty  francs  a  month, 
which  David  generously  offered  him,  together  with  a 
proposition  to  teach  him  the  trade  of  proof-reader, 
although  a  proof-reader  was  absolutely  useless  to 
him,  rescued  Lucien  from  despair.  The  bonds  of 
their  college  friendship,  thus  renewed,  were  soon 
drawn  tighter  by  the  similarity  of  their  destinies 
and  the  difference  in  their  characters.  Each  of 
them  possessed  a  mind  teeming  with  the  material  for 
several  fortunes,  and  that  lofty  intelligence  which 
places  man  upon  a  level  with  eminence  of  every 
sort,  and  yet  they  found  themselves  on  the  very 
lowest  rung  of  the  social  ladder.  This  injustice 
on  the  part  of  fate  was  a  powerful  bond  of  union. 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  37 

Furthermore,  both  had  arrived  at  versifying,  but  by 
different  roads.  Although  destined  to  the  loftiest 
speculations  in  the  natural  sciences,  Lucien's  eyes 
were  turned  with  ardor  toward  literary  renown; 
while  David,  whom  his  meditative  temperament 
predisposed  to  poesy,  inclined,  as  a  matter  of  taste, 
to  the  exact  sciences.  This  intermingling  of  char- 
acters engendered  a  sort  of  mental  brotherhood. 
Lucien  soon  told  David  of  the  lofty  views  he  in- 
herited from  his  father  as  to  the  applications  of 
science  to  manufacturing,  and  David  called  Lucien's 
attention  to  the  untrodden  roads  in  literature  which 
he  proposed  to  venture  upon  in  order  to  make  a 
name  and  a  fortune  for  himself.  The  friendship  of 
the  two  young  men  became  in  a  few  days  one  of 
those  passions  which  spring  into  being  only  on  the 
threshold  of  manhood. 

David  was  soon  presented  to  Eve  and  fell  in  love 
with  her,  as  melancholy  and  meditative  natures  are 
wont  to  fall  in  love.  The  Et  nunc  et  semper  et  in 
secula  seculorum  of  the  liturgy  is  the  device  of  the 
sublime  unknown  poets  whose  works  consist  of 
magnificent  epics  born  and  lost  between  two  hearts! 
When  the  lover  had  fathomed  the  secret  of  the  hopes 
that  Lucien's  mother  and  sister  placed  upon  that 
beautiful  poetic  forehead,  when  their  blind  devotion 
became  known  to  him,  he  took  delight  in  drawing 
near  his  mistress  by  sharing  her  sacrifices  and  her 
hopes.  Thus  Lucien  was  David's  brother-elect. 
Like  the  ultras  who  tried  to  be  more  royalist  than 
the  king  himself,  David's  faith  in  Lucien's  genius 


189954 


38  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

surpassed  that  of  his  mother  and  sister,  he  spoiled 
him  as  a  mother  spoils  her  child.  During  one  of 
the  conversations,  in  which,  impelled  by  the  lack 
of  money  that  tied  their  hands,  they  considered, 
like  all  young  men,  the  different  ways  of  attaining 
wealth  promptly  by  shaking  to  no  purpose  all  the 
trees  that  have  already  been  stripped  of  their  fruit 
by  earlier  comers,  Lucien  recalled  two  ideas  that 
his  father  had  suggested  to  him.  Monsieur  Chardon 
had  contemplated  reducing  the  price  of  sugar  one- 
half  by  the  use  of  a  new  chemical  agent,  and  of 
effecting  a  proportionate  reduction  in  the  price  of 
paper,  by  bringing  from  America  certain  inexpen- 
sive vegetable  substances  analogous  to  those  used 
by  the  Chinese.  David,  who  knew  the  importance 
of  this  matter,  which  had  already  been  discussed  by 
the  Didots,  seized  upon  the  idea,  believing  that  he 
saw  a  fortune  in  it,  and  he  looked  upon  Lucien  as  a 
benefactor  to  whom  he  could  never  hope  to  pay  his 
debt. 

It  will  readily  be  understood  that  the  dominant 
thoughts  as  well  as  the  private  lives  of  the  two 
friends  made  them  wholly  unfitted  to  manage  a 
printing  office.  Instead  of  bringing  in  fifteen  to 
twenty  thousand  francs,  like  the  establishment  of 
the  brothers  Cointet,  printers  and  publishers  to  the 
bishopric  and  proprietors  of  the  Courrier  de  la 
Charente,  now  the  only  journal  in  the  department, 
the  Sechard  establishment  produced  hardly  three 
hundred  francs  a  month,  out  of  which  the  proof- 
reader's salary,  Marion's  wages,  taxes  and  rent  had 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  39 

to  be  paid ;  which  reduced  David's  net  income  to 
about  a  hundred  francs  a  month.  Energetic  and  in- 
dustrious men  would  have  renewed  the  type,  pur- 
chased iron  presses,  and  procured  books  at  the 
Parisian  bookstores  which  they  would  have  re- 
printed at  a  low  price;  but  master  and  proof-reader, 
engrossed  by  the  absorbing  labors  of  the  mind,  con- 
tented themselves  with  the  work  their  last  cus- 
tomers gave  them.  The  brothers  Cointet  had  come 
at  last  to  understand  David's  character  and  habits, 
and  they  no  longer  slandered  him ;  on  the  other 
hand,  a  wise  policy  led  them  to  allow  his  printing 
office  to  live  on,  and  to  help  to  support  it  in  decent 
mediocrity,  so  that  it  might  not  fall  into  the  hands 
of  some  dangerous  antagonist;  they  themselves  sent 
the  so-called  town  work  there.  Thus,  although  he 
had  no  idea  of  it,  David  Sechard  continued  to  exist, 
commercially  speaking,  only  by  virtue  of  his  rivals' 
shrewd  foresight.  Delighted  with  what  they  called 
his  mania,  the  Cointets  treated  him,  so  far  as  ap- 
pearances went,  with  the  utmost  straightforward- 
ness and  loyalty;  but,  in  reality,  they  were  acting 
like  the  management  of  the  Messageries  Roy  ales, 
when  they  invent  a  feigned  rivalry  in  order  to 
avoid  a  genuine  one. 

The  exterior  of  the  Sechard  house  was  in  har- 
mony with  the  shameful  avarice  that  reigned 
supreme  in  the  interior,  where  the  old  bear  had 
never  repaired  anything.  The  rain  and  sun,  the 
changing  seasons,  had  given  the  door  of  the  passage- 
way the  appearance  of  an  old  tree  trunk,  it  was  so 


40  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

furrowed  with  cracks  of  all  lengths  and  widths. 
The  front,  wretchedly  constructed  of  stone  and 
bricks,  mingled  without  any  attempt  at  symmetry, 
seemed  to  bulge  out  under  the  weight  of  a  moulder- 
ing roof  overburdened  with  the  hollow  tiles  with 
which  all  roofs  are  covered  in  the  south  of  France. 
The  rotting  window  frames  were  embellished  with 
enormous  shutters  held  in  place  by  the  thick  cross- 
bars which  the  heat  of  the  climate  demands.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  to  find  in  all  Angouleme 
another  house  as  cracked  and  seamed  as  this  one, 
which  was  held  together  only  by  the  strength  of  the 
cement.  Imagine  the  press-room,  light  at  both  ends, 
dark  in  the  middle,  the  walls  covered  with  hand- 
bills; darkened  at  the  lower  part  by  the  workmen 
rubbing  against  it  for  thirty  years  past,  its  network 
of  cords  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  its  piles  of  paper, 
its  old  presses,  its  heaps  of  stones  to  press  the 
dampened  sheets,  its  rows  of  cases,  and  at  the  end, 
the  two  cages  in  which  the  master  and  the  proof- 
reader respectively  sat;  you  will  then  understand 
the  existence  of  the  two  friends. 

In  1821,  early  in  the  month  of  May,  David  and 
Lucien  were  standing  near  the  window  looking  on 
the  courtyard,  about  two  o'clock  one  afternoon,  just 
as  their  four  or  five  workmen  left  the  press-room  to 
go  to  dinner.  When  the  master  saw  his  apprentice 
close  the  street  door,  which  had  a  bell  attached,  he 
led  Lucien  into  the  courtyard,  as  if  the  smell  of  the 
paper  and  ink  and  presses  and  old  wood  were  un- 
bearable to  him.     They  sat  down  under  an  arbor 


ANDRE  DE   CHENIER 


"So  that  is  Andre  de  Chenier!"  cried  Lucien 
more  than  once.  "He  drives  one  to  despair"  lie  re- 
peated for  the  third  time,  when  David,  too  deeply 
moved  to  continue,  allowed  him  to  take  the  book. — 
"A  poet  discovered  by  a  poet  1"  he  said,  when  he 
saw  the  signature  at  the  end  of  the  preface. 


• 


IIIP'I   N-lWORj'AU. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  41 

from  which  they  could  see  whatever  took  place  in 
the  press-room.  The  sunbeams  playing  among  the 
vine-leaves  on  the  trellis  caressed  the  two  poets, 
enveloping  them  with  their  light  as  with  a  halo. 
The  contrast  between  the  two  characters  and  the 
two  faces  was  so  strikingly  brought  out  that  it  would 
have  charmed  the  brush  of  a  great  artist.  Davidi 
had  thefigure  that  nature  bestows  upon  beings! 
"destined  tcTsustain  violent  conflicts,  open  or  secret! 
His  broad  chest  was  flanked  by  sturdy  shoulders 
that  harmonized  with  the  amplitude  of  all  his  pro- 
portions. His  full,  dark,  sunburned  face,  supported 
by  a  thick  neck,  and  surrounded  by  a  dense  forest 
of  black  hair,  resembled  at  a  first  glance  the  faces  of 
the  canons  of  whom  Boileau  sings;  but  a  second 
glance  disclosed  to  you,  in  the  furrows  of  the  thick 
lips,  in  the  dimpled  chin,  in  the  profile  of  a  square- 
cut  nose,  divided  by  a  strong  irregular  line,  and 
above  all  in  the  eyes,  the  ever-burning  fire  of  a 
single  passion,  the  sagacity  of  the  thinker,  the 
ardent  melancholy  of  a  mind  that  could  embrace  the 
whole  horizon  from  end  to  end,  penetrating  all  its 
windings,  and  that  was  readily  disenchanted  with 
purely  ideal  pleasures  by  subjecting  them  to  the 
searching  light  of  analysis. 

If  one  could  detect  in  that  face  the  gleams  of  the 
genius  that  will  not  be  restrained,  one  also  saw 
therein  the  ashes  beside  the  volcano;  hope  faded 
away  in  a  deep-rooted  consciousness  of  the  social 
nullity  to  which  obscure  birth  and  lack  of  fortune 
condemn  so  many  superior  minds.     Beside  the  poor 


42  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

printer,  who  had  an  intense  loathing  for  his  trade, 
although  it  borders  so  closely  on  the  realm  of  the 
intellect,  beside  this  Silenus  who  leaned  heavily 
upon  himself  and  drank  long  draughts  from  the  cup 
of  science  and  poetry,  intoxicating  himself  in  order 
to  forget  the  woes  of  provincial  life,  stood  Lucien  in 
the  graceful  attitude  invented  by  sculptors  for  the 
Indian  Bacchus.  His  iace~Tra"a'  the  distinguished 
outlines  of  the  antique  type  of  beauty;  the  forehead 
'and  nose  were  Greek,  the  skin  as  velvety  and 
white  as  a  woman's,  the  eyes  of  such  a  deep  blue 
that  they  seemed  black,  eyes  overflowing  with  love, 
the  whites  as  clear  and  unspotted  as  a  child's. 
Those  lovely  eyes  were  surmounted  by  eyebrows 
that  might  have  been  drawn  by  a  Chinese  pencil, 
and  bordered  with  long  chestnut  lashes.  Along  the 
cheeks  glistened  a  silky  down,  of  a  color  that 
harmonized  perfectly  with  the  naturally  curly, 
blond  hair.  Divine  amiability  was  written  upon 
his  golden-white  temples.  Incomparable  nobility 
of  character  was  stamped  upon  his  short,  gracefully 
curved  chin.  The  smile  of  a  sorrowful  angel  played 
upon  his  coral  lips  whose  color  was  heightened  by 
handsome  white  teeth.  He  had  the  hands  of  a 
patrician,  elegant  hands,  whose  slightest  sign  men 
would  hasten  to  obey,  such  hands  as  women  love  to 
kiss.  Lucien  was  slender  and  of  medium  height. 
Upon  looking  at  his  feet  one  would  have  been  in- 
clined to  take  him  for  a  young  woman  in  disguise, 
the  more  because,  like  the  majority  of  shrewd,  not 
to  say  astute  men,  his   hips  were  shaped  like  a 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  43 

woman's.     This! indjcjitjon^  rarely  misleading,  was 


accurate  in  Cucien's  case,  for  the  bent  of  his  active  \ 
mind  often  led  him,  when  he  set  about  analyzing 
the   present   condition  of  society,  to  act  upon  the 
depraved  theory  peculiar  to  diplomatists^thal^gc 
"cess^justifies  anyjngans,  however  snameful  they 


may  be.     OTTeof  the  misfortunes  to  which  great 
"mindsTre  subjected  is  the  necessity  of  comprehend- 
ing everything,  vices  as  well  as  virtues. 

These  two  young  men  passed  judgment  upon  so- 
ciety with  the  greater  freedom  because  of  their 
lowly  station  therein,  for  undervalued  men  take 
their  revenge  for  the  humility  of  their  position  by 
the  loftiness  of  their  glance.  But,  in  like  manner, 
their  despair  was  the  more  bitter  because  in  this 
way  they  traveled  more  rapidly  in  the  direction  in 
which  their  real  destiny  impelled  them.  Lucien 
had  read  much  and  compared  much;  David  had 
thought  much  and  meditated  much.  Despite  his 
apparent  robust  and  vigorous  health,  the  printer  was 
a  melancholy,  sickly  genius;  he  doubted  himself; 
whereas  Lucien,  being  endowed  with  an  enterpris- 
ing and  versatile  mind,  was  audacious  to  a  degree 
that  was  not  in  accord  with  his  effeminate,  almost 
weakly  carriage,  instinct  with  the  graces  of  the 
gentler  sex.  Lucien  had  to  the  highest  degree  the 
Gascon  character,  bold,  courageous,  adventurous, 
prone  to  exaggerate  good  and  to  make  light  of  evil, 
which  does  not  shrink  from  a  sin  if  there  is  profit  in 
it,  and  which  laughs  at  vice  if  it  can  use  it  as  a 
stepping-stone.     This    ambitious    disposition    had 


44  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

hitherto  been  held  in  check  by  the  seductive  illu- 
sions of  youth,  by  the  ardor  that  inclined  him  to- 
ward the  noble  methods  that  young  men  who  are 
enamored  of  renown  employ  before  all  others.  Jfcle 
was  as  yet  at  odds  only  with  his  longings  and  not 
with  the  difficulties  of  life,  with  his  own  power  ancf 
not  with  the  cowardice  of  men,  which  sets  a  fatal 
example  to  changeable  minds.  Thoroughly  fas- 
cinated by  Lucien's  brilliant  mind,  David  admired 
him,  while  he  sought  to  rectify  the  errors  into  which 
the  characteristic  French  ardor  led  him.  That  just 
man  had  a  retiring  disposition  not  in  harmony  with 
his  powerful  constitution,  but  he  did  not  lack  the 
persistence  of  the  men  of  the  North.  Although  he 
always  foresaw  all  sorts  of  difficulties,  he  promised 
himself  that  he  would  overcome  them  without  be- 
coming discouraged;  and  although  he  had  the  firm- 
ness of  truly  apostolic  virtue,  he  tempered  it  by  the 
charms  of  inexhaustible  indulgence.  In  this  friend- 
ship, already  of  long  standing,  one  of  the  two  loved 
idolatrously  and  that  one  was  David.  Thus  Lucien 
issued  orders  like  a  woman  who  knows  that  she  is 
beloved.  David  obeyed  with  delight.  His  friend's 
physical_beauty  imported  a  superiority  which  he 
acknowledged,  deeming  himself  stupid  and  common- 
)Tace7 


pjace. 
~77FoT 


*or  the  ox,  patient  agriculture  ;  for  the  bird, 
heedless  life,"  said  the  printer  to  himself.  "I  will 
be  the  ox,  Lucien  shall  be  the  eagle." 

For  some  three  years  past  the  friends  had  thus 
mingled  their  destinies,  of  such  brilliant  promise  for 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  45 

the  future.  They  read  the  great  works  that  appeared 
upon  the  literary  and  scientific  horizon  after  the 
peace;  the  works  of  Schiller,  Goethe,  Lord  Byron, 
Walter  Scott,  Jean-Paul,  Berzelius,  Davy,  Cuvier 
and  Lamartine.  They  warmed  themselves  at  those 
great  fires,  they  tried  their  own  powers  in  works, 
mostly  abortive,  laid  aside  and  taken  up  again 
with  ardor.  They  worked  constantly  without  ex- 
hausting the  inexhaustible  strength  of  youth. 
Equally  poor,  but  consumed  by  the  love  of  art 
and  science,  they  forgot  their  present  misery,  so 
engrossed  were  they  in  laying  the  foundations  of 
their  renown. 

"Lucien,  what  do  you  suppose  I  have  just  received 
from  Paris?"  said  the  printer,  taking  a  little  i8mo 
volume  from  his  pocket.     "Listen!" 

David  read,  as  only  poets  can  read,  Andre  de 
Chenier's  idyl,  entitled  Neere,  then  Le  Jeune  Malade 
and  then  the  elegy  upon  suicide,  the  first  in  the 
ancient  metre,  the  last  two  in  iambics. 

"So  that  is  Andre  de  Chenier !"  cried  Lucien 
more  than  once.  "He  drives  one  to  despair," 
he  repeated  for  the  third  time,  when  David,  too 
deeply  moved  to  continue,  allowed  him  to  take 
the  book. — "A  poet  discovered  by  a  poet!"  he 
said,  when  he  saw  the  signature  at  the  end  of 
the  preface. 

"After  producing  that  book,"  said  David, 
"Chenier  thought  he  had  done  nothing  worthy  to 
be  published." 

Lucien    in   his   turn     read    the    epic    fragment, 


46  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

L'Aveugle,  and  several  elegies.  When  he  hap- 
pened upon  the  line: 

"  If  they're  not  happy,  is  happiness  found  on  earth? " 

he  kissed  the  book,  and  the  two  friends  wept,  for 
both  loved  idolatrously.  The  vine-leaves  took  on 
a  brilliant  coloring,  the  old  walls  of  the  house,  split 
and  battered  and  irregularly  traversed  by  unsightly 
cracks,  were  embellished  by  fairy  fingers  with 
delicate  tracery  and  carvings,  bas-reliefs  and  count- 
less masterpieces  of  some  forgotten  school  of  archi- 
tecture. Fancy  scattered  its  flowers  and  its  rubies 
on  the  dark  little  courtyard.  Andre  de  Chenier's 
Camille  became  in  David's  eyes  his  adored  Eve, 
and  in  Lucien's  a  great  lady  to  whom  he  was  pay- 
ing court.  Poetry  shook  the  majestic  skirts  of  its 
starry  robe  over  the  press-room  where  the  monkeys 
and  bears  were  making  wry  faces  over  their  work. 
The  clock  struck  five,  but  the  two  friends  were 
neither  hungry  nor  thirsty;  their  life  was  a  golden 
dream,  they  had  all  the  treasures  of  earth  at  their 
feet.  They  saw  the  corner  of  the  blue  horizon 
which  the  finger  of  Hope  points  out  to  those  whose 
lives  are  stormy,  and  to  whom  her  siren's  voice 
says:  "Go,  fly,  you  will  escape  disaster  through 
that  patch  of  gold  or  silver  or  azure."  At  that 
moment  an  apprentice  named  Cerizet,  a  Paris  gamin 
whom  David  had  sent  for  to  come  to  Angouleme, 
opened  the  small  glass  door  that  led  from  the  press- 
room into  the  courtyard,  and  called  the  attention  of 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  47 

the  two  friends  to  a  stranger  who  came  toward  them, 
bowing. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  to  David,  taking  from  his 
pocket  an  enormous  roll  of  paper,  "here  is  a  memoir 
which  I  desire  to  have  printed;  will  you  kindly- 
estimate  the  cost?" 

"Monsieur,  we  don't  print  manuscripts  of  such 
length,"  replied  David,  without  looking  at  the  roll. 
"See  Messieurs  Cointet. " 

"But  we  have  a  very  pretty  type  that  might  be 
suitable,"  observed  Lucien,  taking  the  manuscript. 
"We  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  be  good  enough  to 
return  to-morrow,  and  to  leave  the  manuscript  with 
us  to  estimate  the  cost  of  printing." 

"Have  I  not  the  honor  of  addressing  Monsieur 
Lucien  Chardon?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  the  proof-reader  replied. 

"I  am  very  happy,  monsieur,"  said  the  author, 
"to  have  met  a  young  poet  who  has  so  great  a  future 
in  store.     I  am  sent  by  Madame  de  Bargeton. " 

When  he  heard  that  name,  Lucien  blushed  and 
stammered  a  few  words  expressive  of  his  gratitude 
for  Madame  de  Bargeton's  interest  in  him.  David 
noticed  his  friend's  blushes  and  embarrassment, 
and  left  him  in  conversation  with  the  country  gen- 
tleman, author  of  a  memoir  upon  the  cultivation  of 
silk  worms,  whose  vanity  impelled  him  to  have 
his  lucubrations  printed  in  order  that  they  might 
be  read  by  his  colleagues  in  the  Society  of  Agri- 
culture. 

"Well,  Lucien,"  said  David,  when  the  gentleman 


48  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

had  taken  his  leave,  "are  you  in  love  with  Madame 
de  Bargeton  ?" 

"Madly." 

"But  you  are  more  completely  separated  by  social 
prejudices  than  if  she  were  in  Pekin  and  you  in 
Greenland." 

"The  will  of  two  lovers  triumphs  over  every- 
thing," said  Lucien,  lowering  his  eyes. 

"You  will  forget  us,"  said  the  fair  Eve's  timid 
lover. 

"On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  that  I  have  sacri- 
ficed my  mistress  to  you,"  cried  Lucien. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Despite  my  love,  despite  the  divers  motives 
that  impel  me  to  frequent  her  house,  1  have  told  her 
that  I  would  never  go  there  again,  unless  a  man 
whose  talents  are  superior  to  mine,  whose  future  is 
certain  to  be  glorious,  unless  David  Sechard,  my 
brother,  my  friend,  were  made  welcome  there.  I 
expect  to  find  an  answer  at  home.  But,  although 
all  the  aristocrats  are  invited  there  this  evening  to 
hear  me  read  poetry,  if  the  answer  is  unfavorable, 
I  will  never  again  set  foot  inside  Madame  de  Bar- 
geton's  house." 

David  wiped  his  eyes  and  pressed  Lucien's  hand 
fervently.     Six  o'clock  struck. 

"Eve   will    be    anxious;    adieu,"    said    Lucien 

abruptly. 

»      He   fled,   leaving  David   overwhelmed  with  the 

J  emotion  that  one  never  feels  so  completely  as  at  that 

\  age,  especially  in  the  situation  of  these  two  young 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  49 

swans   whose  wings   provincial    life   had   not   yet 
clipped. 

"Heart  of  gold!"  cried  David,  looking  after 
Lucien  as  he  passed  through  the  workroom. 

Lucien  went  down  to  L'Houmeau  by  the  beautiful 
Promenade  de  Beaulieu,  Rue  du  Minage,  and  Porte 
Saint-Pierre.  His  reason  for  taking  the  longest  road 
to  his  destination  was  that  Madame  de  Bargeton's 
house  lay  upon  that  road.  He  felt  so  much  pleasure 
in  passing  beneath  that  lady's  windows,  even  with- 
out her  knowledge,  that  for  two  months  past  he  had 
not  once  returned  to  L'Houmeau  by  Porte  Palet. 

When  he  found  himself  under  the  trees  of  Beau- 
lieu,  he  reflected  upon  the  distance  between  An- 
gouleme  and  L'Houmeau.  The  customs  of  the 
province  had  raised  barriers  much  more  difficult  to 
pass  than  the  steps  by  which  Lucien  descended. 
The  ambitious  youth,  who  had  made  his  way  into 
the  Bargeton  mansion,  exhaling  glory,  like  a  flying 
bridge  between  the  town  and  the  faubourg,  was  as 
anxious  concerning  his  mistress's  decision  as  a 
favorite  who  dreads  disgrace  after  having  attempted 
to  extend  his  power.  These  words  may  seem  ob- 
scure to  those  who  have  never  remarked  the  pecu- 
liar customs  in  vogue  in  towns  that  are  divided  into 
an  upper  town  and  a  lower  town ;  but  it  is  the  more 
necessary  at  this  point  to  set  forth  a  few  facts  with 
relation  to  Angouleme,  because  they  will  be  of 
assistance  in  understanding  the  character  of  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton,  one  of  the  most  important  per- 
sonages of  this  narrative. 
4 


* 

Angouleme  is  an  ancient  town  built  on  the  summit 
of  a  rock,  shaped  like  a  loaf  of  sugar,  which  over- 
looks the  meadows  through  which  the  Charente 
flows.  This  rock  is  the  continuation  of  a  long  hill 
which  falls  gradually  toward  Perigord,  and  which 
it  brings  to  an  abrupt  termination  on  the  road  from 
Paris  to  Bordeaux,  forming  a  sort  of  promontory- 
bounded  by  three  picturesque  valleys.  The  impor- 
tance of  this  town  in  the  times  of  the  religious  wars 
is  attested  by  its  ramparts,  by  its  gates  and  by  the 
remains  of  a  fortress  perched  on  the  apex  of  the 
rock.  Its  situation  made  it  in  the  old  days  a 
strategic  point  of  equal  value  to  Catholics  and  Cal- 
vinists;  but  its  oldtime  strength  constitutes  its 
present  weakness ;  its  ramparts  and  the  extremely 
steep  slope  of  the  rock  have  prevented  it  from 
spreading  out  along  the  Charente  and  thus  have  con- 
demned it  to  the  most  lamentable  inactivity.  About 
the  time  when  the  events  recorded  in  this  narrative 
took  place,  the  government  tried  to  extend  the  town 
toward  Perigord  by  building  the  palace  of  the  pre- 
fecture, a  naval  school  and  military  establishments 
along  the  hill,  and  laying  out  roads  there.  But 
commerce  had  taken  a  start  in  another  direction. 
For  a  long  time,  the  suburb  of  L'Houmeau  had  been 
growing  like  a  bed  of  mushrooms  at  the  foot  of  the 

(5i) 


52  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

cliff  and  along  the  shores  of  the  river  which  the 
great   highroad    from    Paris   to   Bordeaux   skirted. 
Everyone  is  aware  of  the  celebrity  of  the  paper 
manufactories  of  Angouleme,  which  were  established 
three  centuries  ago  on  the  Charente  and  its  affluents, 
where   falling   water  was   found.     The  State  had 
founded  its  largest  foundry  for  naval  guns  atRuelle. 
Express  offices,  the  post  office,  inns,  wheelwrights, 
public  carriages,  all  the  branches  of  industry  which 
depend  for  their  maintenance  on  the  road  and  river, 
were  grouped  together  at  the  feet  of  Angouleme,  to 
avoid  the  difficulties  presented  by  its  approaches. 
Naturally  the  tanneries,  laundries,  all  the  trades  in 
which  water  was  largely  used,  remained  within  call 
of  the  Charente;   the   wine-shops  too,    the  store- 
houses for  all  raw  materials  carried  on  the  river, 
and  lastly,  all  the  warehouses  for  goods  in  bond, 
lay  along  the  river.     Thus  the  suburb  of  L'Houmeau 
became  a  thriving  and  wealthy  town,  a  second  An- 
gouleme viewed  with  jealous  eyes  by  the  Upper 
Town,  where  the  government  buildings,  the  bishop's 
palace,  the  courts  of  law  and  the  aristocracy  still 
remained.      So  that   L'Houmeau,   notwithstanding 
its  activity  and  its  increasing  power,  was  only  an 
annex  of  Angouleme.     Above,  the  nobility  and  the 
constituted     authorities;     below,     commerce     and 
wealth;  two  social  zones  that  are  always  at  enmity 
everywhere;  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  the 
two  hated  its  rival  the  more  bitterly. 

For  the  past  nine  years  the  Restoration  had  ag- 
gravated   the    condition    of    affairs,    which    were 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  53 

reasonably  tranquil  under  the  Empire.  The 
majority  of  the  houses  in  Upper  Angouleme  are 
occupied  either  by  noble  families  or  by  old  bour- 
geois families  who  live  on  their  income  and  form 
a  sort  of  aboriginal  nation  into  which  strangers  are 
never  admitted.  Even  after  two  hundred  years  of 
residence  and  an  alliance  with  one  of  the  primordial 
families,  a  family  from  some  neighboring  province 
can  only  with  difficulty  make  its  way  into  the 
charmed  circle ;  in  the  eyes  of  the  natives  it  is  con- 
sidered to  have  come  to  the  province  only  yesterday. 
The  prefects,  the  receivers-general,  the  successive 
administrations  of  the  past  forty  years,  have  tried  to 
civilize  these  old  families,  perched  on  their  rock 
like  suspicious  crows;  the  families  have  accepted 
their  parties  and  their  dinners ;  but,  when  it  came 
to  admitting  them  to  their  houses,  they  persistently 
refused.  Scornful,  disparaging,  jealous,  miserly, 
these  families  intermarried,  formed  themselves  into 
a  compact  battalion  so  that  no  one  could  go  out  or 
in.  Of  the  inventions  of  modern  luxury  they 
knew  nothing;  in  their  view,  to  send  a  child  to 
Paris  was  to  seek  his  ruin.  This  prudence  is 
typical  of  the  antiquated  morals  and  customs  of 
those  families,  saturated  with  unintelligent  royal- 
ism,  tainted  with  religion  rather  than  religious, 
who  pass  their  lives  as  immovable  as  their  town 
and  its  rock.  And  yet  Angouleme  enjoys  a  great 
reputation  in  the  neighborhood  for  the  education  one 
can  obtain  there.  The  neighboring  towns  send 
their  daughters  to  the  boarding-schools  and  convents 


54  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

there.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  how  great  an  influence 
the  spirit  of  caste  has  upon  the  feelings  that  divide 
Angouleme  and  L'Houmeau.  The  merchants  are 
wealthy,  the  nobles  are,  generally  speaking,  poor. 
Each  takes  its  revenge  upon  the  other  in  contempt 
that  is  equal  on  both  sides.  The  bourgeoisie  of 
Angouleme  espouse  the  quarrel.  The  tradesman  of 
the  Upper  Town  says  of  a  tradesman  of  the  suburb, 
in  an  indescribable  tone:  "That's  a  man  from 
L'Houmeau!" 

In  marking  out  the  position  of  the  nobility  in 
France  and  giving  it  hopes  which  could  not  be 
realized  without  a  general  upheaval,  the  Restoration 
increased  the  moral  distance  which  was  even  more 
effectual  than  the  physical  distance  in  keeping  An- 
gouleme and  L'Houmeau  asunder.  The  social  circle 
of  the  nobles,  at  this  time  attached  to  the  govern- 
ment, became  more  exclusive  there  than  in  any 
other  part  of  France.  The  inhabitants  of  L'Hou- 
meau were  veritable  pariahs.  Hence  the  bitter  and 
deep-seated  animosities  which  gave  the  Revolution 
of  1830  its  marvelous  unanimity,  and  destroyed  the 
elements  of  a  durable  social  structure  in  France. 
The  overbearing  pride  of  the  court  nobility  alienated 
the  provincial  nobility  from  the  throne  as  much  as 
the  provincial  nobility  alienated  the  bourgeoisie 
by  wounding  it  in  every  tender  spot.  Therefore 
the  introduction  of  a  man  from  L'Houmeau,  the  son 
of  a  druggist,  into  Madame  de  Bargeton's  salon 
created  a  small-sized  revolution.  Who  were  respon- 
sible for  it?     Lamartine  and  Victor  Hugo,  Casimir 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  55 

Delavigne  and  Canalis,  Beranger  and  Chateau- 
briand, Villemain  and  Aignan,  Soumet  and  Tissot, 
Etienne  and  Davrigny,  Benjamin  Constant  and 
Lamennais,  Cousin  and  Michaud,  in  a  word,  all  the 
literary  celebrities,  old  and  young,  liberal  and  roy- 
alist. Madame  de  Bargeton  loved  art  and  letters,  an 
extravagant  taste,  a  mania  deeply  deplored  in  An- 
gouleme,  which  it  is  necessary  to  justify  by  sketch- 
ing the  life  of  this  woman,  who  was  born  to  be 
famous,  but  kept  in  obscurity  by  fatal  circum- 
stances, and  whose  influence  determined  Lucien's 
destiny. 

Monsieur  de  Bargeton  was  the  great-grandson  of 
a  former  warden  of  Bordeaux,  one  Mirault,  who  was 
ennobled  under  Louis  XIII.,  as  a  reward  for  long 
service  in  that  office.  Under  Louis  XIV.,  his  son, 
who  was  known  as  Mirault  de  Bargeton,  was  an 
officer  in  the  gardes  de  la  porte,  and  made  such  a 
great  marriage,  from  a  pecuniary  standpoint,  that 
his  son,  under  Louis  XV.  was  called  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton  simply.  This  Monsieur  de  Bargeton,  the 
grandson  of  Monsieur  Mirault  the  warden,  was  so 
bent  upon  bearing  himself  as  a  perfect  gentleman 
that  he  ran  through  all  the  family  property  and 
checked  its  rise  in  fortune.  Two  of  his  brothers, 
great-uncles  of  the  present  Bargeton,  returned  to 
trade,  so  that  the  name  of  Mirault  appeared  once 
more  in  the  commercial  circles  of  Bordeaux.  As 
the  estate  of  Bargeton,  situated  in  Angoumois,  hav- 
ing been  a  dependency  of  the  feudal  estate  of  La 
Rochefoucauld,  was    entailed,   as   was   a   house  in 


56  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

Angoul£me  called  the  Hotel  de  Bargeton,  the  grand- 
son of  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  the  Spendthrift  inher- 
ited those  two  properties.  In  1789,  he  lost  his 
legal  title  and  retained  only  the  revenues  of  the 
estate,  which  amounted  to  about  ten  thousand 
francs  a  year.  If  his  grandfather  had  followed  the 
glorious  examples  of  Bargeton  I.  and  Bargeton  II., 
Bargeton  V.,  who  may  be  called  the  Silent,  would 
have  been  Marquis  de  Bargeton ;  he  would  have 
married  into  some  great  family  and  would  have  be- 
come a  duke  and  peer,  like  so  many  others; 
whereas,  he  was  highly  flattered,  in  1805,  to  obtain 
the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Marie-Louise-Anais  de 
Negrepelisse,  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  long 
since  forgotten  in  his  little  country-seat,  although 
he  belonged  to  the  younger  branch  of  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  the  south  of  France.  There 
was  a  Negrepelisse  among  the  hostages  of  Saint 
Louis;  but  the  head  of  the  elder  branch  bears 
the  illustrious  name  of  D'Espard,  acquired  under 
Henri  IV.  by  a  marriage  with  the  heiress  of  that 
family. 

This  gentleman,  the  younger  son  of  a  younger 
son,  lived  upon  his  wife's  property,  a  small  estate 
near  Barbezieux,  which  he  cultivated  with  excellent 
results,  carrying  his  own  wheat  to  market,  burning 
his  wine  himself,  and  snapping  his  fingers  at 
mockery,  so  long  as  he  was  able  to  heap  up  crowns 
and  to  add  to  his  domain  from  time  to  time.  Cer- 
tain circumstances  of  rare  occurrence  in  the  heart  of 
the  provinces  had  aroused  in  Madame  de  Bargeton 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  57 

a  taste  for  music  and  literature.  During  the  Rev- 
olution one  Abbe  Niollant,  Abbe  Roze's  best  pupil, 
sought  shelter  in  the  little  castle  of  Escarbas,  bring- 
ing thither  his  stock  in  trade  as  a  composer.  He 
repaid  the  old  gentleman  handsomely  for  his  hospi- 
tality by  educating  his  daughter  Anais,  called  Nais 
for  short,  who,  except  for  that  lucky  chance,  would 
have  been  left  to  her  own  devices  or,  and  that 
would  have  been  even  more  unfortunate,  to  those  of 
some  evil-minded  lady's  maid.  Not  only  was  the 
abbe  a  musician,  but  he  possessed  an  extensive 
knowledge  of  literature,  and  was  familiar  with 
Italian  and  German.  He  instructed  Mademoiselle 
de  Negrepelisse  in  those  two  languages  and  in 
counterpoint;  he  explained  to  her  the  great  literary 
works  of  France,  Italy  and  Germany,  and  worked 
with  her  upon  the  compositions  of  all  the  great 
masters  of  music.  Lastly,  to  combat  the  slothful 
tendencies  of  the  profound  solitude  to  which  the 
course  of  political  events  condemned  them,  he 
taught  her  Greek  and  Latin  and  gave  her  a  smat- 
tering of  the  natural  sciences.  The  presence  of  a 
mother  did  not  modify  the  influence  of  this  mascu- 
line education  upon  a  young  woman  already  too 
prone  to  assert  her  independence  as  a  result  of  her 
life  in  the  open  air. 

Abbe  Niollant,  an  enthusiastic,  poetic  creature, 
was  especially  remarkable  for  the  possession  of  the 
wit  that  is  the  peculiar  characteristic  of  artists, 
that  carries  with  it  many  estimable  qualities,  and 
rises  above  bourgeois  ideas  by  the  freedom  of  its 


58  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

judgments  and  the  extent  of  its  perceptions.  While, 
in  the  world  at  large,  that  variety  of  wit  earns  for- 
giveness for  its  audacity  by  its  originality  and 
depth,  it  may  seem  harmful  in  private  life  because 
of  the  lofty  flights  it  inspires.  The  abbe  did  not 
lack  heart,  so  that  his  ideas  were  contagious  to  a 
young  girl  in  whom  the  natural  exaltation  of  youth 
was  strengthened  by  the  solitude  of  a  country  life. 
Abbe  Niollant  imparted  to  his  pupil  his  habit  of  bold 
scrutiny  and  his  faculty  of  forming  prompt  judg- 
ments, not  fe~flectingjthat  thosecjualities,  so  neces- 
sajxj10,.3-  man,  become  defects  of  character  in  a 
woman  destined" to  fill  the  bjirnble  sf^TlclTof~mother 
of  a  family.  I  Although  the  abbe  constantly  enjoined 
upon  his  pupil  to  be  the  more  amiable  and  modest, 
the  more  extensive  her  knowledge,  Mademoiselle  de 
Negrepelisse  conceived  an  excellent  opinion  of  her- 
self and  a  robust  contempt  for  mankind  in  general. 
Seeing  about  her  none  but  inferiors  and  people 
eager  to  obey  her,  she  assumed  the  haughty  manner 
of  great  ladies,  without  their  soft  and  courteous 
hypocrisy.  Flattered  in  all  her  vanities  by  a  poor 
abbe  who  admired  himself  in  her,  as  an  author  ad- 
mires himself  in  his  work,  she  was  so  unfortunate 
as  to  have  no  point  of  comparison  by  which  to  judge 
herself.  The  lack  of  society  is  one  of  the  greatest 
drawbacks  to  life  in  the  country.  Having  no  occa- 
sion to  make  for  others  the  little  sacrifices  demanded 
by  the  toilet  and  by  the  laws  of  courtesy,  one  loses 
the  habit  of  putting  one's  self  out  for  others.  There- 
upon everything  about  us  depreciates,  manners  as 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  59 

well  as  mind.  Being  unrestrained  by  the  shackles 
of  society,  the  boldness  of  Madame  de  Negrepelisse's 
ideas  passed  into  her  manners  and  her  expression; 
she  had  that  jaunty  air  which  at  first  glance  seems 
original,  but  which  is  not  becoming  to  women  other 
than  those  who  lead  adventurous  lives.  Thus  her 
education,  whose  asperities  would  have  been  worn 
smooth  in  the  higher  social  spheres,  was  calculated 
to  make  her  ridiculous  at  Angoule'me,  whenever  her 
adorers  should  cease  to  worship  her  errors,  fascinat- 
ing only  during  youth.  As  for  Monsieur  de  Ne- 
grepelisse,  he  would  have  given  all  his  daughter's 
books  to  save  a  sick  ox;  for  he  was  so  miserly, that 
he  would  never  have  allowed  her  one  sou  over  and 
above  the  income  to  which  she  was  entitled,  even 
for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  trifle  that  was  most 
essential  to  her  education. 

The  abbe  died  in  1802,  before  his  dear  child's 
marriage,  which  he  would  undoubtedly  have  dis- 
couraged. The  old  gentleman  found  his  hands  full 
with  his  daughter  when  the  abbe  died.  He  felt  that 
he  was  too  weak  to  sustain  the  conflict  that  was 
certain  to  break  out  between  his  avarice  and  the 
independent  spirit  of  his  child,  whose  occupation 
was  gone.  Like  all  young  women  who  have  devi- 
ated from  the  traveled  road  that  women  are  ex- 
pected to  follow,  Nais  had  made  up  her  mind  on  the 
subject  of  marriage  and  cared  but  little  about  trying 
it.  She  disliked  the  thought  of  submitting  her  in- 
tellect and  her  person  to  the  uninteresting  men, 
wholly  lacking  in  personal  grandeur,  whom  it  had 


60  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

been  her  fortune  to  meet.  She  desired  to  command, 
and  it  would  be  her  duty  to  obey.  If  she  had  had 
to  choose  between  obeying  the  vulgar  caprices  of 
minds  that  were  without  indulgence  for  her  tastes, 
and  flying  with  a  lover  who  caught  her  fancy,  she 
would  not  have  hesitated  an  instant. 

Monsieur  de  Negrepelisse  was  still  enough  of  a 
gentleman  to  dread  a  mesalliance.  Like  many 
fathers,  he  determined  to  find  a  husband  for  his 
daughter,  less  for  her  sake  than  in  the  interest  of 
his  own  tranquillity.  He  required  a  nobleman  or 
gentleman  of  little  wit,  unlikely  to  haggle  over  the 
guardian's  account  which  he  intended  to  submit  to 
his  daughter,  sufficiently  weak  in  mind  and  will  to 
allow  Nais  to  behave  as  she  chose,  sufficiently  dis- 
interested to  marry  her  without  a  marriage-portion. 
But  how  to  find  a  son-in-law  who  would  meet  the 
views  of  both  father  and  daughter?  Such  a  man 
was  the  phoenix  of  sons-in-law.  With  this  twofold 
object  in  mind,  Monsieur  de  Negrepelisse  looked 
over  the  eligible  men  in  the  province,  and  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  who 
answered  all  the  requirements.  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton,  then  about  forty  years  old  and  consider- 
ably the  worse  for  the  dissipated  life  he  had  led 
during  his  youth,  was  accused  of  being  extraordi- 
narily feeble-minded ;  but  he  retained  just  enough 
common  sense  to  manage  his  property  and  enough 
good  manners  to  live  in  Angouleme  society  without 
committing  any  noticeably  awkward  or  foolish  ac- 
tions.    Monsieur   de   Negrepelisse  set   before    his 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  6l 

daughter  without  disguise  the  negative  merit  of  the 
model  husband  he  proposed  to  her,  and  impressed 
upon  her  all  the  advantage  she  might  derive  there- 
from for  her  own  happiness:  she  would  marry  a 
coat  of  arms  that  was  already  two  hundred  years 
old;  the  Bargetons  quarter  or  three  stags'  heads 
gules,  two  and  one,  alternating  with  three  bulls' 
frontals  sable,  one  and  two,  fesse  a%ure  and  argent 
by  six,  with  six  shells  or  on  the  a^ure,  three  two 
and  one.  Armed  with  a  chaperon,  she  could 
manage  his  fortune  as  she  chose,  sheltered  behind 
a  social  position,  and  with  the  assistance  of  the 
connections  her  wit  and  beauty  would  procure  for 
her  at  Paris.  Nais  was  fascinated  by  the  prospect 
of  such  liberty  of  action,  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  be- 
lieved that  he  was  making  a  brilliant  match,  con- 
sidering that  his  father-in-law  would  before  long 
leave  him  the  estate  that  he  was  rounding  out  so 
fondly;  but  at  that  moment,  Monsieur  de  Ne- 
grepelisse  seemed  likely  to  write  his  son-in-law's 
epitaph. 

At  that  time,  Madame  de  Bargeton  was  thirty-six 
years  old  and  her  husband  fifty-eight.  This  differ- 
ence in  their  ages  was  the  more  annoying  because 
Monsieur  de  Bargeton  seemed  to  be  at  least  seventy, 
while  his  wife  could  play  the  young  girl  with  im- 
punity, dress  in  pink  or  wear  her  hair  like  a  child. 
Although  their  fortune  did  not  exceed  twelve  thou- 
sand francs  a  year,  it  was  classed  among  the  six 
most  considerable  fortunes  of  the  old  town,  mer- 
chants and  administrative  officers  excepted.     The 


62  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

necessity  of  cultivating  their  father,  whose  inherit- 
ance Madame  de  Bargeton  was  awaiting  in  order  to 
go  to  Paris,  and  who  made  her  wait  so  long  that  his 
son-in-law  eventually  died  before  him,  compelled 
Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Bargeton  to  live  at  An- 
gouleme,  where  the  brilliant  qualities  of  Nais's 
mind  and  the  unpolished  jewels  hidden  in  her  heart, 
bade  fair  to  be  wasted  without  profit,  and  to  change 
with  time  into  causes  of  ridicule.  In  truth,  our  ab- 
surdities are  caused  in  great  part  by  noble  senti- 
ments, by  virtues  or  mental  faculties  carried  to 
extremes.  The  pride  which  is  not  humbled  by  con- 
tact with  the  best  society  becomes  stiffness  when  it 
is  displayed  in  connection  with  trifles,  instead  of 
becoming  ennobled  in  a  circle  of  exalted  sentiments. 
Exaltation,  that  virtue  within  a  virtue  which  gives 
birth  to  saints,  which  inspires  secret  devotion  and 
outspoken  poesy,  becomes  exaggeration  when  it  is 
expended  upon  the  trifling  concerns  of  the  province. 
Far  from  the  centre  where  great  minds  shine,  where 
the  air  is  laden  with  thoughts,  where  everything  is 
constantly  changing,  knowledge  becomes  stale,  the 
taste  becomes  vitiated  like  stagnant  water.  For 
lack  of  exercise  the  passions  demean  themselves  by 
magnifying  small  things.  Therein  is  the  explana- 
tion of  the  avarice  and  gossiping  spirit  that  are  the 
pests  of  provincial  life.  Ere  long  the  instinctive 
imitation  of  narrow  ideas  and  cringing  manners 
grows  upon  persons  of  the  highest  distinction. 
Thus  do  men  born  to  be  great,  sink  into  insignifi- 
cance,  as  well   as  women  who  would   have  been 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  63 

delightful    had  they  been  set  right   by  knowledge 
of  the  world  and  moulded  by  superior  minds. 

Madame  de  Bargeton  took  up  her  lyre  on  the 
slightest  provocation,  without  distinguishing  per- 
sonal poetic  thoughts  from  poetic  thoughts  suited 
for  the  public  eye.  For  there  are  misinterpreted 
sensations  that  one  should  keep  to  one's  self.  Be- 
yond question  a  sunset  is  a  grand  poem,  but  does 
not  a  woman  make  herself  ridiculous  by  describing 
it  in  high-sounding  words  before  unspiritual  peo- 
ple? There  are  sensuous  delights  that  can  only  be 
enjoyed  to  the  full  by  two  congenial  souls,  poet  to 
poet,  heart  to  heart.  She  had  the  fault  of  using 
long  sentences  interlarded  with  emphatic  words, 
aptly  called  tartines  in  the  vernacular  of  journalism, 
which  cuts  some  very  indigestible  ones  every  morn- 
ing for  its  subscribers,  who  swallow  them  uncom- 
plainingly. She  was  lavish  beyond  measure  of 
superlatives,  and  overburdened  her  conversation 
with  them,  making  the  merest  trifles  assume  gigan- 
tic proportions.  About  this  time,  she  began  to 
typify,  individualize,  syntheti^e,  dramatize,  supe- 
riori^e,  analyse,  poetise,  prosaici^e,  colossify,  angel- 
ify,  neologise  and  tragici^e  everything;  for  we 
must  do  violence  to  the  language  for  a  moment  in 
order  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  novel  freaks  that 
some  women  indulge  in.  Her  mind  took  fire,  too,  as 
readily  as  her  language.  The  dithyramb  was  in 
her  heart  and  on  her  lips.  Her  heart  beat  fast,  she 
waxed  enthusiastic  and  went  into  raptures  over 
every  occurrence;  the    devotion  of  a  Gray  Sister 


64  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

and  the  execution  of  the  Faucher  brothers,  Monsieur 
d'Arlincourt's  Ipsiboe  no  less  than  Lewis's  Ana- 
conda,the  escape  of  La  Valette  and  the  heroism  of 
one  of  her  friends  who  put  robbers  to  flight  by  as- 
suming a  bass  voice.  To  her  everything  was  sub- 
lime, extraordinary,  strange,  divine,  marvelous. 
She  would  become  excited  or  indignant,  recoil  in 
horror,  rush  forward,  fall  back,  gaze  at  the  sky  or 
the  ground;  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears.  She 
wore  out  her  life  in  constant  admiration  and  con- 
sumed her  strength  in  withering  disdain.  She 
formed  a  mental  image  of  the  Pacha  of  Janina,  she 
would  have  liked  to  contend  with  him  in  his  harem, 
and  she  discovered  something  great  in  being  sewn 
into  a  sack  and  thrown  into  the  water.  She  envied 
Lady  Esther  Stanhope, the  bluestocking  of  the  desert. 
She  longed  to  become  a  sister  of  Sainte-Camille  and 
to  go  and  face  death  from  yellow  fever  at  Barcelona, 
nursing  the  sick :  that  was  a  great,  a  noble  destiny ! 
In  short,  she  was  athirst  for  everything  that  was 
not  the  clear  water  of  her  life,  hidden  beneath  its 
weeds.  She  adored  Lord  Byron,  Jean- Jacques 
Rousseau  and  all  poetic,  dramatic  existences.  She 
had  tears  to  shed  for  all  misfortunes  and  flourishes 
of  trumpets  for  every  victory.  She  sympathized 
with  Napoleon  vanquished,  she  sympathized  with 
Mehemet  Ali,  massacring  the  tyrants  of  Egypt.  In 
a  word,  she  arrayed  men  of  genius  in  a  halo,  and 
thought  that  they  could  live  upon  incense  and  light. 
To  many  persons  she  seemed  a  madwoman,  whose 
mania  was   harmless;  but   to   some   perspicacious 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  65 

observers,  these  things  would  surely  have  seemed 
to  be  the  ruins  of  a  magnificent  passion  that  had 
crumbled  as  soon  as  it  was  built,  the  remains  of  a 
celestial  Jerusalem,  in  a  word,  love  without  the 
lover.     And  it  was  true. 

The  story  of  the  first  eighteen  years  of  Madame 
de  Bargeton's  married  life  can  be  written  in  a  very 
few  words.  She  lived  for  some  time  upon  her  own 
substance  and  far-off  hopes.  Then,  having  come  to 
realize  that  life  in  Paris,  to  which  she  aspired,  was 
out  of  the  question  on  account  of  the  mediocrity  of 
her  fortune,  she  began  to  scrutinize  the  people  by 
whom  she  was  surrounded  and  shuddered  at  her 
solitude.  There  was  no  man  in  her  circle  who  was 
capable  of  inspiring  one  of  those  mad  passions  to 
which  women  abandon  themselves,  impelled  by  the 
despair  consequent  upon  an  objectless,  uneventful, 
uninteresting  life.  She  could  rely  upon  nothing, 
not  even  upon  chance,  for  there  are  some  lives  into 
which  chance  does  not  enter. 

In  the  days  when  the  Empire  was  in  its  greatest 
glory,  at  the  time  of  Napoleon's  march  into  Spain, 
whither  he  sent  the  flower  of  his  troops,  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  hopes,  disappointed  hitherto,  awoke  to 
renewed  life.  Curiosity  naturally  led  her  to  study 
those  heroes  who  conquered  Europe  at  a  word  in- 
serted in  the  order  of  the  day,  and  who  re-enacted 
the  fabulous  exploits  of  the  days  of  chivalry.  The 
most  parsimonious  and  the  most  refractory  towns 
were  compelled  to  make  holiday  for  the  Garde  Im- 
perial; the  mayors  and  prefects  went  out  to  meet 
5 


66  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

them,  with  harangues  upon  their  lips,  as  if  to  do 
honor  to  royalty.  Madame  de  Bargeton,  attending 
a  ridotto  given  by  a  certain  regiment  to  the  towns- 
people, lost  her  heart  to  a  gentleman,  a  simple  sub- 
lieutenant, to  whom  the  crafty  Napoleon  had  given 
a  glimpse  of  the  baton  of  a  marshal  of  France. 
This  restrained  passion,  a  grand  and  noble  passion 
in  striking  contrast  to  the  passions  that  were  so 
readily  formed  and  abandoned  in  those  days,  was 
consecrated  by  death.  At  Wagram  a  cannon-ball 
shattered,  upon  the  heart  of  the  Marquis  de  Cante- 
Croix,  the  only  portrait  that  bore  witness  to  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton's  beauty.  She  long  mourned 
the  noble  youth  who  had  become  a  colonel  in  two 
campaigns,  inspired  by  glory  and  by  love,  and  who 
esteemed  a  letter  from  Nais  above  all  tokens  of  im- 
perial approbation.  Sorrow  cast  a  veil  of  sadness 
over  her  face.  That  cloud  was  not  dissipated  until 
she  reached  the  redoubtable  age  at  which  a  woman 
begins  to  regret  her  happy  past,  although  she  has 
never  enjoyed  it,  at  which  she  sees  that  her  roses 
are  fading,  while  the  longing  for  love  is  rekindled 
with  the  desire  to  prolong  the  last  smiles  of  youth. 
All  her  superior  qualities  wounded  her  heart  at  the 
moment  that  the  chill  of  the  province  attacked  it. 
Like  the  ermine,  she  would  have  died  of  grief  if 
she  had  chanced  to  soil  herself  by  contact  with  men 
who  think  of  nothing  but  playing  cards  for  small 
stakes  in  the  evening,  after  a  good  dinner.  Her 
pride  preserved  her  from  the  melancholy  love-affairs 
of  the  province.      Between  the  stupid   men   who 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  67 

surrounded  her  and  nothing,  a  woman  of  such 
superior  mind  would  surely  prefer  nothing.  Thus 
marriage  and  society  were  to  her  a  monastery.  She 
lived  upon  poetry,  as  the  Carmelite  lives  upon  re- 
ligion. The  works  of  the  hitherto  unknown  illus- 
trious foreigners,  which  were  published  from  181 5 
to  1821,  the  great  treatises  of  Monsieur  de  Bonald 
and  Monsieur  de  Maistre,  those  two  profound 
thinkers,  and  the  less  grandiose  works  of  French 
literature,  which  was  then  putting  forth  its  first 
shoots  so  vigorously,  embellished  her  solitude,  but 
imparted  no  elasticity  to  her  mind  or  her  person. 
She  remained  as  straight  and  stiff  as  a  tree  that 
has  been  struck  by  lightning  and  has  not  been  felled 
thereby.  Her  dignity  overreached  itself,  her  semi- 
royalty  made  her  finical  and  affected.  Like  all 
those  who  allow  themselves  to  be  adored  by  cour- 
tiers, whoever  they  may  be,  she  played  the  queen 
with  all  her  faults. 


Such  was  Madame  de  Bargeton's  past,  a  story 
without  interest,  which  it  was  necessary  to  tell  in 
order  to  properly  understand  her  liaison  with  Lu- 
cien,  whose  introduction  to  her  came  about  in  a 
peculiar  way.  During  the  last  winter  a  person  had 
arrived  in  the  town  who  had  imparted  some  ani- 
mation to  the  monotonous  life  Madame  de  Bargeton 
usually  led.  The  post  of  superintendent  of  imposts 
having  fallen  vacant,  Monsieur  de  Barante  sent 
down  to  fill  it  a  man  whose  adventurous  career 
pleaded  so  strongly  in  his  favor  that  feminine  curi- 
osity served  as  his  passport  to  the  salon  of  the  queen 
of  the  province. 

Monsieur  du  Chatelet,  who  came  into  the  world 
plain  Sixte  Chatelet,  but  who  had  the  good  sense 
to  assume  a  title  in  1806,  was  one  of  those  attrac- 
tive young  men  who  escaped  all  the  conscriptions 
under  Napoleon  by  remaining  near  the  imperial 
sun.  He  had  begun  his  career  as  secretary  to  an 
imperial  princess.  Monsieur  du  Chatelet  possessed 
all  the  incapacities  demanded  by  his  place.  A 
shapely,  well-favored  man,  a  good  dancer^a  skilful 
billiard-player,  proficient  in  all  manly  exercises, 
a  fair  amateur_actpr,  a  singer  of  loye^sjmgs^quick 
Jo^applaud  bright  remarks,  ready  for  everything, 
pliant  andjsjrvjous,TTeHkliew  everything  and  noth- 
Although  he  knew  nothing  of  music,  he  would 
(69) 


70  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

play  an  accompaniment  with  more  or  less  success 
for  a  woman  who  obligingly  consented  to  sing  a 
romanza  that  she  had  been  struggling  to  learn  for  a 
month  past.  Although  he  was  utterly  incapable  of 
a  true  understanding  of  poetry,  he  would  boldly  ask 
permission  to  leave  the  room  for  ten  minutes  to 
dash  off  some  impromptu  verses,  a  quatrain  flat  as 
the  palm  of  your  hand,  in  which  ideas  were  replaced 
by  jingling  rhymes.  Monsieur  du  Chatelet  was, 
however,  endowed  with  the  talent  of  filling  in  a 
piece  of  embroidery  in  which  the  flowers  had  been 
begun  by  the  princess;  he  held  her  skeins  of  silk 
with  exquisite  grace  while  she  wound  them,  telling 
her  idle  stories  in  which  the  obscenity  was  hidden 
beneath  a  veil  with  more  or  less  holes  in  it.  Although 
he  was  ignorant  of  the  art  of  painting,  he  knew  how 
to  copy  a  landscape,  draw  a  profile  in  crayon,  sketch 
a  costume  and  color  it.  In  short,  he  had  all  the 
petty  talents  which  were  such  great  stepping-stones 
to  fortune  at  a  time  when  women  had  more  influ- 
ence than  is  commonly  supposed  upon  public  affairs. 
He  claimed  to  be  very  strong  in  diplomacy,  the 
science  of  those  who  have  none,  and  who  are  deep 
by  their  very  emptiness ;  a  very  convenient  science, 
too,  in  the  sense  that  it  manifests  itself  simply  by 
undertaking  exalted  functions;  that,  having  no  use 
for  any  but  discreet  men,  it  permits  fools  to  say 
nothing,  to  take  refuge  in  mysterious  shakings  of 
the  head;  and  that  the  man  who  is  most  learned  in 
that  science  is  the  one  who  swims  along  keeping 
his  head  above  the  flood  of  events,  which  he  thus 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  71 

seems  to  guide,  thereby  raising  a  question  of  specific 
gravity.  In  diplomacy,  as  in  art,  you  meet  a  thou- 
sand mediocrities  for  every  man  of  genius. 

Despite  his  ordinary  and  extraordinary  service 
with  her  Imperial  Highness,  the  influence  of  his 
patroness  was  not  sufficient  to  secure  him  a  place 
in  the  Council  of  State :  not  that  he  would  not  have 
made  a  delightful  master  of  requests,  as  many  others 
like  him  have  done,  but  the  princess  considered 
him  more  fitly  employed  in  her  service  than  else- 
where. However,  he  was  made  a  baron,  went  to 
Cassel  as  envoy  extraordinary,  and  did  in  truth 
make  a  most  extraordinary  appearance  there.  In 
other  words,  Napoleon  made  use  of  him  at  a  critical 
time  as  a  diplomatic  messenger.  When  the  Empire 
fell,  the  Baron  du  Chatelet  had  been  promised  the 
appointment  of  minister  to  Jerome's  court  of  West- 
phalia. Having  missed  what  he  called  a  family 
embassy,  despair  seized  upon  him;  he  took  a  trip 
to  Egypt  with  General  Armand  de  Montriveau. 
Separated  from  his  companion  by  a  sequence  of 
strange  events,  he  wandered  two  years  from  desert 
to  desert,  from  tribe  to  tribe,  a  prisoner  in  the 
hands  of  the  Arabs,  who  sold  him  from  one  to 
another,  unable  to  derive  the  slightest  benefit  from 
his  talents.  At  last  he  reached  the  possessions  of 
the  Iman  of  Mascate  while  Montriveau  was  on  his 
way  to  Tangier ;  but  he  had  the  good  fortune  to 
find  an  English  ship  at  Mascate  just  about  to  make 
sail,  and  returned  to  Paris  a  year  before  his  travel- 
ing   companion.      His    recent    misfortunes,    some 


72  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

connections  of  ancient  date,  and  services  rendered 
to  personages  then  in  favor  led  to  his  being  recom- 
mended to  the  President  of  the  Council,  who  placed 
him  with  Monsieur  de  Barante,  awaiting  the  first 
vacant  post.  The  part  played  by  Monsieur  du 
Chatelet  in  the  service  of  the  imperial  princess, 
his  reputation  as  a  man  of  gallantry,  the  strange 
events  of  his  voyage,  his  sufferings,  all  combined 
to  arouse  the  interest  of  the  women  of  Angouleme. 
Having  made  himself  familiar  with  the  manners 
and  customs  of  the  Upper  Town,  Monsieur  le  Baron 
Sixte  du  Chatelet  conducted  himself  accordingly. 
He  played  the  invalid,  the  blase,  disgusted  man  of 
the  world. 

On  every  occasion,  he  would  take  his  head  in  his 
hands  as  if  his  suffering  did  not  give  him  a 
moment's  respite,  a  little  manoeuvre  which  recalled 
his  travels  and  made  him  interesting.  He  visited 
the  houses  of  the  higher  officials,  the  general,  the 
prefect,  the  receiver-general  and  the  bishop;  but 
everywhere  he  exhibited  the  same  polished,  cold, 
slightly  disdainful  bearing,  like  all  men  who  are 
not  in  their  proper  place  and  who  expect  favors 
from  the  powers  that  be.  He  left  his  social  talents 
to  be  divined,  for  it  was  to  their  advantage  not  to 
be  known;  then,  after  he  had  made  himself  popular, 
after  he  had  discovered  the  insignificance  of  the 
men  and  had  knowingly  scrutinized  the  women  for 
several  Sundays  at  the  cathedral,  he  saw  in  Madame 
de  Bargeton  the  one  person  with  whom  he  cared  to 
become  intimate.     He  relied  upon  music  to  open  to 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  73 

him  the  door  of  that  mansion  which  was  pitilessly- 
closed  to  strangers.  He  secretly  procured  a  mass 
by  Miroir  and  practised  it  on  the  piano;  and,  one 
fine  Sunday,  when  all  Angouleme  was  at  mass,  he 
aroused  the  ecstatic  enthusiasm  of  the  ignorant  by 
performing  it  upon  the  organ,  and  rearoused  the  in- 
terest that  already  attached  to  his  person  by  causing 
his  name  to  be  freely  circulated  by  the  lower  clergy. 
When  the  service  was  over,  Madame  de  Bargeton 
complimented  him  and  expressed  her  regrets  at 
having  had  no  opportunity  to  practise  music  with 
him ;  during  this  premeditated  meeting  he  naturally 
obtained  the  passport  to  her  salon,  which  he  would 
not  have  obtained  if  he  had  asked  for  it. 

The  adroit  baron  called  upon  the  queen  of  An- 
gouleme and  paid  her  compromising  attentions. 
The  old  beau — for  he  was  forty-five — discovered  in 
this  woman  a  whole  youth  to  revivify,  treasures  to 
bring  to  light,  perhaps  a  widow,  rich  in  hopes,  to 
marry;  in  a  word,  an  alliance  with  the  family  of 
Negrepelisse,  which  would  give  him  access  to  the 
Marquise  d'Espard  in  Paris,  whose  influence  was 
sufficient  to  throw  open  to  him  a  political  career. 
Despite  the  luxuriant  but  sombre-hued  parasite 
that  disfigured  that  fine  tree,  he  determined  to  cling 
to  it,  to  prune  it,  to  cultivate  it,  and  to  obtain  deli- 
cious fruit  from  it.  Noble  Angouleme  cried  out 
against  the  introduction  of  a  giaour  into  the  casbah, 
for  Madame  de  Bargeton's  salon  was  the  resort  of  a 
social  circle  absolutely  without  alloy.  The  bishop 
alone  came  there  regularly,  the  prefect  was  received 


74  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

two  or  three  times  a  year,  the  receiver-general 
never  entered  the  doors ;  Madame  de  Bargeton  went 
to  his  evening  parties  and  his  concerts,  but  never 
dined  with  him.  Not  to  receive  the  receiver-gen- 
eral and  to  harbor  a  simple  superintendent  of  im- 
posts— such  a  reversal  of  the  hierarchical  order 
seemed  inconceivable  to  the  slighted  functionaries. 
Those  whose  minds  are  capable  of  descending  to 
such  paltry  matters,  which,  by  the  way,  are  to  be 
met  with  in  every  social  sphere,  will  understand 
how  imposing  the  Hotel  de  Bargeton  was  to  the 
bourgeoisie  of  Angouleme.  As  for  L'Houmeau,  the 
grandeurs  of  that  Louvre  on  a  small  scale,  the  glory 
of  that  Angoumois  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  shone  upon 
the  thriving  suburb  from  a  distance  as  great  as  the 
sun's.  All  those  who  assembled  there  were  the 
most  pitifully  deficient  creatures  in  intellectual 
power,  the  weakest  mortals  to  be  found  within  a 
radius  of  twenty  leagues.  Political  subjects  were 
discussed  in  verbose,  impassioned  commonplaces; 
La  Qiwtidienne  seemed  lukewarm,  Louis  XVIII. 
was  treated  as  a  Jacobin.  As  for  the  women,  the 
greater  part  of  them  were  foolish  and  uninteresting, 
dressed  badly  and  all  had  some  flaw  which  ruined 
them;  nothing  about  them  was  complete,  neither 
their  conversation  nor  their  toilets,  neither  the  spirit 
nor  the  flesh.  Except  for  his  designs  upon  Madame 
de  Bargeton,  Chatelet  would  not  have  cared  to  be 
admitted.  Nevertheless,  the  manners  and  the 
spirit  of  caste,  the  gentlemanly  bearing,  the  pride 
of  the  nobleman  with  his  little  castle  and  familiarity 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  75 

with  the  laws  of  courtesy,  covered  the  void.  The 
nobility  of  sentiment  was  much  more  real  there 
than  in  the  sphere  of  Parisian  grandeur;  there  were 
manifestations  of  an  attachment  worthy  of  respect, 
even  if  it  were  to  the  Bourbons.  That  society  may 
be  compared,  if  the  simile  is  admissible,  to  an  old- 
fashioned  service  of  plate,  black  with  age,  but 
heavy.  The  unchangeableness  of  its  political 
opinions  resembled  fidelity.  The  space  between  it 
and  the  bourgeoisie,  the  difficulty  of  gaining  ad- 
mission to  it,  simulated  a  sort  of  superiority  and 
gave  it  a  conventional  value.  Each  of  these  nobles 
had  his  value  in  the  minds  of  the  townspeople,  just 
as  shells  represent  money  among  the  negroes  of 
Bambara. 

Several  ladies,  flattered  by  Monsieur  du  Chatelet, 
and  recognizing  in  him  superior  qualities  which 
were  lacking  in  the  men  of  their  set,  allayed  the  in- 
surrection of  wounded  self-esteem:  one  and  all 
hoped  to  be  honored  with  the  succession  to  the  im- 
perial princess.  The  purists  thought  that  the  in- 
truder would  be  seen  at  Madame  de  Bargeton's,  but 
that  he  would  not  be  received  in  any  other  house. 
Du  Chatelet  was  subjected  to  divers  impertinences, 
but  he  maintained  his  position  by  cultivating  the 
clergy.  Then  too  he  flattered  the  faults  which  the 
queen  of  Angouleme  owed  to  her  country  bringing- 
up,  he  brought  her  all  the  new  books,  he  read  the 
new  poems  to  her  as  they  appeared.  They  went 
into  raptures  together  over  the  works  of  the  younger 
poets,  she  in  good  faith,  and  he,  sadly  bored  but 


76  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

submitting  patiently  to  the  romantic  poets,  whom, 
as  a  man  of  the  imperial  school,  he  hardly  under- 
stood. 

Madame  de  Bargeton,  in  her  enthusiasm  for  the 
renaissance  due  to  the  influence  of  the  lily,  loved 
Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand  because  he  had  called 
Victor  Hugo  a  sublime  child.  Depressed  in  spirit 
because  she  had  no  acquaintance  with  genius  except 
from  a  distance,  she  sighed  for  Paris,  where  all  the 
great  men  lived.  Thereupon  Monsieur  du  Chatelet 
believed  that  he  was  doing  wonders  in  his  own  in- 
terest by  informing  her  that  there  was  in  Angouleme 
another  sublime  child,  a  young  poet  who,  unknown 
to  himself,  surpassed  in  brilliancy  the  rising  of  the 
Parisian  constellations.  A  man  destined  to  be  great 
had  been  born  atL'Houmeau!  The  principal  of  the 
college  had  shown  the  baron  some  admirable  pieces 
of  verse.  Poor  and  modest,  the  child  was  a  Chat- 
terton  without  political  cowardice,  without  the 
savage  hatred  of  social  grandeur  that  impelled  the 
English  poet  to  write  against  his  benefactors. 
Among  the  five  or  six  persons  who  shared  her  taste 
for  art  and  letters,  this  one  because  he  could  scrape 
a  fiddle,  that  one  because  he  besmeared  more  or  less 
white  paper  with  sepia,  another  in  the  capacity  of 
president  of  the  Society  of  Agriculture,  and  another 
by  virtue  of  a  bass  voice  which  enabled  him  to  sing 
the  Se  fiato  in  corpo  avete  after  the  style  of  a  view- 
hallo;  among  those  odd  figures,  Madame  de  Bargeton 
had  the  feeling  a  half-famished  man  has  before  a 
stage  dinner,  where  all  the  dishes  are  of  pasteboard. 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  77 

And  so  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe  her  joy 
on  hearing  this  news.  She  must  see  this  poet,  this 
angel !  she  became  wildly  enthusiastic  on  the  sub- 
ject, she  talked  about  it  for  hours  at  a  time.  Two 
days  later,  the  former  diplomatic  messenger  had 
made  arrangements  through  the  principal  for  Lu- 
cien's  presentation  to  Madame  de  Bargeton. 

You  alone,  poor  provincial  slaves,  to  whom.social 
distances  are  longer  to  travel  than  to  Parisians,  in 
whose  eyes  they  grow  shorter  from  day  to  day,  you 
who  feel  so  keenly  the  weight  of  the  bars  through 
which  all  the  social  strata  in  the  world  hurl  curses 
atone  another  and  call  one  another:  Racal — you 
alone  will  understand  the  upheaval  that  took  place 
in  the  heart  and  brain  of  Lucien  Chardon,  when  his 
imposing  principal  informed  him  that  the  doors  of 
the  Hotel  de  Bargeton  were  about  to  be  thrown  open 
to  him !  renown  had  forced  them  to  turn  upon  their 
hinges!  he  would  be  well  received  in  that  mansion, 
whose  venerable  gables  attracted  his  glance  when 
he  walked  at  Beaulieu  with  David  in  the  evening, 
while  they  said  to  each  other  that  their  names  would 
probably  never  reach  ears  that  were  deaf  to  knowl- 
edge when  it  proceeded  from  too  low  a  point  in  the 
social  scale.  Only  his  sister  was  admitted  to  the 
secret.  Like  a  good  housekeeper,  like  a  divine 
seer,  Eve  took  a  few  louis  from  the  treasury  and 
went  out  to  purchase  some  fine  shoes  for  Lucien 
from  the  best  shoemaker  in  Angouleme  and  a  new 
suit  from  the  most  celebrated  tailor.  She  embel- 
lished his  best  shirt  front  with  a  frill  which  she 


78  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

laundered  and  plaited  with  her  own  hands.  What 
joy,  when  she  saw  him  thus  arrayed!  how  proud 
she  was  of  her  brother!  how  many  injunctions  she 
gave  him!  She  detected  a  thousand  little  foolish 
ways  of  his.  Absorption  in  his  meditations  had 
given  Lucien  the  habit  of  putting  his  elbows  on  the 
table  as  soon  as  he  sat  down ;  and  he  would  even  go 
so  far  as  to  pull  a  table  toward  him  to  lean  upon; 
Eve  forbade  him  to  indulge  in  such  free-and-easy 
perfomances  in  the  aristocratic  sanctuary.  She 
accompanied  him  as  far  as  Porte  Saint-Pierre,  and 
followed  him  to  a  point  almost  opposite  the  cathe- 
dral, watching  him  as  he  walked  along  Rue  de 
Beaulieu  to  the  Promenade,  where  Monsieur  du 
Chatelet  was  waiting  for  him.  There  the  poor  girl 
remained,  deeply  moved,  as  if  some  great  event  had 
taken  place.  Lucien  at  Madame  de  Bargeton's  was 
to  Eve's  mind  the  dawn  of  fortune.  The  saint-like 
creature  did  not  know  that  where  ambition  begins, 
artless,  sincere  sentiments  come  to  an  end. 

When  they  reached  Rue  de  Minage,  Lucien  was 
not  awe-struck  by  the  exterior  aspect  of  affairs. 
That  Louvre,  which  had  assumed  such  magnified 
proportions  in  his  mind,  was  a  house  built  of  a  soft 
stone  peculiar  to  the  province,  and  gilded  by  time. 
Its  appearance,  gloomy  enough  upon  the  street,  was 
very  simple  within;  there  was  the  typical  provin- 
cial courtyard,  bare  and  neat;  simple,  quasi-monas- 
tic architecture,  in  excellent  preservation.  Lucien 
went  up  an  old  staircase  with  chestnut  banisters, 
the   stairs  being  of  stone  only  to  the  first  floor. 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  79 

After  passing  through  a  reception-room  of  mean 
aspect  and  a  dimly-lighted  large  salon,  he  found  the 
sovereign  in  a  small  salon  with  carved  wooden  wain- 
scoting in  the  style  of  the  last  century,  and  painted 
gray.  The  upper  part  of  the  doors  was  painted  in 
monochrome.  The  panels  were  covered  with  old 
red  damask,  badly  matched.  The  stuffing  of  the 
old-fashioned  chairs  was  barely  hidden  beneath 
covers  of  alternating  red  and  white  squares.  The 
poet  discovered  Madame  de  Bargeton  sitting  on  a 
couch  with  a  little  quilted  cushion,  beside  a  round 
table  covered  with  a  green  cloth  and  lighted  by  a 
candlestick  with  two  wax  candles  and  a  shade. 
The  queen  did  not  rise,  but  turned  gracefully  on 
her  seat,  smiling  at  the  poet,  who  was  deeply 
moved  by  that  serpentine  movement,  which  seemed 
to  him  very  distinguished.  Lucien's  excessive 
beauty,  his  timid  manners,  his  voice,  everything 
about  him  made  a  deep  impression  on  Madame  de 
Bargeton.  The  poet  was  in  himself  the  personi- 
fication of  poetry.  The  young  man  glanced  timidly 
at  this  woman,  who  seemed  to  him  to  harmonize 
with  her  reputation;  she  gave  the  lie  to  none  of  his 
ideas  of  what  a  great  lady  should  be.  Madame  de 
Bargeton  wore  a  new  style  of  slashed  blacky  velvet 
cap.  That  style  of  headdress  conveys  a  reminis- 
cence of  the  Middle  Ages  which  imposes  on  a  young 
man  by  amplifying  the  wearer,  so  to  speak;  some 
stray  locks  of  reddish  hair  escaped  from  beneath  it, 
shining  like  gold  in  the  light  and  with  a  glint  of 
flame  about  the  edges  of  the  curls.     The  noble  lady 


80  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

had  the  brilliant  complexion  with  which  a  woman 
redeems  the  alleged  drawbacks  of  that  tawny  color. 
Her  gray  eyes  sparkled ;  they  were  worthily  crowned 
by  the  white  mass  of  her  prominent,  sharply  defined 
forehead,  already  wrinkled.  Below  them  were 
pearly  circles,  and  two  blue  veins  on  each  side  of 
the  nose  set  off  the  whiteness  of  that  delicate  border. 
The  nose  presented  a  Bourbonese  curve  which 
added  to  the  animation  of  her  rather  long  face, 
forming  a  salient  point  at  which  the  royal  vivacity 
of  the  Condes  made  itself  manifest.  Her  hair  did 
not  entirely  conceal  her  neck.  Her  dress,  carelessly 
secured,  permitted  glimpses  of  a  snow-white  throat, 
beneath  which  the  eye  could  divine  a  spotless,  well 
proportioned  bust.  With  her  tapering,  well-kept 
fingers,  albeit  a  little  dry,  Madame  de  Bargeton 
affably  waved  the  young  poet  to  a  chair  by  her 
side.     Monsieur  du  Chatelet  took  an  armchair. 

Lucien  saw  that  they  were  alone.  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  conversation  intoxicated  the  poet  from 
L'Houmeau.  The  three  hours  he  passed  with  her 
were  to  Lucien  one  of  those  dreams  one  would  like 
to  endure  for  ever.  She  seemed  to  him  wasted 
rather  than  thin,  amorous  without  love,  sickly  de- 
spite her  strength;  her  failings,  which  her  manners 
exaggerated,  pleased  him,  for  young  men  begin  by 
loving  exaggeration,  the  falsehood  of  noble  hearts. 
He  did  not  notice  the  signs  of  decay  or  the  pimples 
on  her  cheeks,  to  which  the  ennui  of  her  life  and 
,some  ill-health  had  given  a  sort  of  brick  color.  His 
imagination  was  captured  first  of  all  by  the  eyes  of 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  8l 

fire,  by  the  graceful  curls  in  which  the  light  was 
reflected,  by  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  her  forehead — 
luminous  points  by  which  he  was  attracted  as  a  moth 
is  by  the  candle.  And  then  her  heart  spoke  too 
eloquently  to  his  to  allow  him  to  pass  judgment  on 
the  woman.  The  enthusiasm  of  her  exalted  mood, 
the  fervor  of  the  somewhat  timeworn  phrases, 
which  Madame  de  Bargeton  had  long  been  repeating 
but  which  seemed  new  to  him,  fascinated  him  the 
more  readily  because  he  desired  to  find  everything 
as  it  should  be.  He  had  brought  no  poetry  to  read 
to  her;  but  the  subject  was  not  mentioned:  he  had 
forgotten  his  verses  purposely,  in  order  to  have  an 
excuse  for  coming  again;  Madame  de  Bargeton  had 
omitted  to  speak  of  them  in  order  to  ask  him  to 
read  to  her  some  other  day.  Was  not  this  a  fair 
beginning  of  an  understanding  between  them? 
Monsieur  Sixte  du  Chatelet  was  ill  pleased  with 
the  reception  accorded  Lucien.  He  discovered 
somewhat  tardily  a  rival  in  the  comely  youth, 
whom  he  escorted  on  his  homeward  way  as  far  as 
the  turn  in  the  first  flight  of  steps  below  Beaulieu, 
with  the  design  of  making  him  a  victim  of  his 
diplomacy.  Lucien  was  astonished  beyond  measure 
to  hear  the  superintendent  of  imposts  boast  of  hav- 
ing introduced  him,  and  thereupon  assume  the  right 
to  give  him  advice. 

"God  grant  you  will  be  better  treated  than  I  have 

been,"  said  Monsieur  du  Chatelet.     "The  court  is 

less  impertinent  than  this  coterie  of  noodles.     A 

man  receives  mortal  wounds  here,  and  has  to  put 

6 


82  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

up  with  the  most  maddening  contempt  The  Rev- 
olution of  1789  will  begin  again  if  these  people 
don't  mend  their  ways.  For  my  part,  my  only 
reason  for  continuing  to  go  to  that  house  is  my  lik- 
ing for  Madame  de  Bargeton,  the  only  passably 
decent  woman  in  all  Angouleme.  I  have  been  pay- 
ing court  to  her  for  lack  of  anything  better  to  do, 
and  I  have  fallen  madly  in  love  with  her."  He 
went  on  to  say  that  he  should  soon  possess  her, 
that  everything  led  him  to  think  that  she  loved 
him.  That  haughty  queen's  submission  would  be 
the  only  vengeance  he  could  wreak  upon  that  idiotic 
crew  of  clodhoppers. 

Chatelet  dilated  upon  his  passion  like  a  man  who 
was  quite  capable  of  slaughtering  a  rival,  if  he 
should  fall  in  with  one.  The  old  imperial  butterfly 
fell  with  his  whole  weight  on  the  poor  poet,  trying 
to  crush  him  under  his  dignity,  and  to  intimidate 
him.  He  increased  in  stature  as  he  described  in 
exaggerated  terms  the  perils  of  his  journey;  but, 
although  he  may  have  impressed  the  imagination  of 
the  poet,  he  did  not  terrify  the  lover. 

After  that  evening,  in  spite  of  the  old  dandy,  in 
spite  of  his  threats  and  his  scowling  face,  like  that 
of  a  bourgeois  bravo,  Lucien  returned  to  Madame 
de  Bargeton's,  at  first  with  the  discretion  of  a  man 
from  L'Houmeau;  but  he  soon  became  accustomed 
to  what  seemed  to  him  at  first  to  be  an  enormous 
favor,  and  he  called  upon  her  more  and  more  fre- 
quently. The  son  of  a  pharmacist  was  considered 
by  the  members  of  this  coterie  as  being  of  little 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  83 

consequence.  In  the  beginning,  if  any  gentlemen 
or  ladies  who  were  calling  upon  Na!s  met  Lucien 
there,  they  treated  him  with  the  crushing  courtesy 
which  fashionable  people  adopt  with  their  inferiors. 
At  first  Lucien  found  them  very  affable;  but  event- 
ually he  fathomed  the  feeling  to  which  this  deceptive 
esteem  was  due.  Soon  he  detected  patronizing  airs 
which  stirred  his  bile  and  confirmed  him  in  the  de- 
testable republican  notions  with  which  many  future 
patricians  begin  their  acquaintance  with  good  so- 
ciety. But  how  great  suffering  would  he  not  have 
endured  for  Nais,  whom  he  heard  people  call  by 
that  name,  for  the  elect  of  that  clan,  like  the  Spanish 
grandees  and  the  crime  de  la  crime  at  Vienna,  call 
one  another,  men  and  women  alike,  by  their  pet 
names,  the  last  subtle  distinction  invented  to  sub- 
divide the  heart  of  the  Angouleme  aristocracy. 

Nais  was  beloved  as  every  young  man  loves  the 
first  woman  who  flatters  him,  for  Nais  prophesied  a 
great  future,  unbounded  glory,  for  Lucien.  She 
put  forth  all  her  address  to  install  the  poet  in  her 
salon:  not  only  did  she  praise  him  beyond  all 
measure,  but  she  represented  him  as  a  youth  with- 
out resources  for  whom  she  wished  to  find  a  place; 
she  belittled  him  in  order  to  keep  him;  she  made 
him  her  reader,  her  secretary;  but  she  loved  him 
more  than  she  thought  she  could  love  after  the  ter- 
rible disaster  that  had  befallen  her.  She  was  very 
severe  upon  herself  inwardly,  she  said  to  herself 
that  it  would  be  downright  madness  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  young  man  of  twenty,  who  was  already  so 


84  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

far  removed  from  her  in  social  position.  Her 
familiarity  was  capriciously  contradicted  by  the 
haughty  airs  inspired  by  her  scruples.  She  was  by 
turns  arrogant  and  patronizing,  affectionate  and 
flattering.  Intimidated  at  first  by  her  exalted  rank, 
Lucien  had  all  the  fears,  all  the  hopes  and  all  the 
despair  that  torment  a  first  love  and  cause  it  to  so 
monopolize  the  heart  by  alternate  blows  upon  the 
chords  of  suffering  and  of  pleasure.  For  two  months 
he  saw  in  her  a  benefactress  who  proposed  to  take 
a  material  interest  in  him.  But  confidences  began. 
Madame  de  Bargeton  called  her  poet  "Dear  Lucien ;" 
then,  plain  "dear."  The  poet,  emboldened,  called 
the  great  lady  Nais.  When  he  first  called  her  by 
that  name  she  was  angry  after  the  fashion  that  is 
always  fascinating  to  a  child;  she  reproached  him 
for  taking  the  name  by  which  everybody  called  her. 
The  proud  and  noble  Negrepelisse  offered  the  angelic 
creature  that  one  of  her  names  that  was  still  un- 
worn; she  chose  to  be  Louise  to  him.  Lucien 
reached  the  third  heaven  of  love. 

One  evening,  having  entered  the  room  while 
Louise  was  gazing  at  a  portrait,  which  she  hastily 
concealed,  Lucien  insisted  upon  seeing  it.  To  allay 
the  despair  of  the  first  paroxysm  of  jealousy,  Louise 
showed  him  the  portrait  of  young  Cante-Croix,  and 
told,  not  without  tears,  the  sad  history  of  her  pure 
but  cruelly  disappointed  love.  Was  she  trying  to 
decide  to  be  unfaithful  to  her  dead  lover,  or  had  she 
conceived  the  idea  of  giving  Lucien  a  rival  in  the 
portrait?     Lucien   was   too   young  to  analyze  his 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  85 

mistress ;  he  artlessly  manifested  his  despair,  for  she 
opened  the  campaign,  during  which  women  demolish 
scruples  more  or  less  ingeniously  fortified.  Their 
discussions  concerning  duty,  propriety  and  religion 
are  like  strong  places  which  they  like  to  see  taken 
by  assault.  The  innocent  Lucien  did  not  need  such 
coquetries:  he  would  have  fought  quite  naturally. 

"I  will  not  die,  I  will  live  for  you,"  he  said 
audaciously  one  evening,  determined  to  have  done 
with  Monsieur  de  Cante-Croix;  and  he  looked  at 
Louise  with  an  expression  indicating  a  passion  that 
had  reached  its  limit. 

Terrified  at  the  progress  this  new  love  was  mak- 
ing in  her  own  heart  and  in  her  poet's,  she  asked  him 
for  the  verses  he  had  promised  her  for  the  first  page 
of  her  album,  seeking  a  pretext  for  a  quarrel  in  his 
delay  in  writing  them.  What  were  her  sensations 
when  she  read  the  two  stanzas  following,  which, 
of  course,  seemed  to  her  more  beautiful  than  the 
choicest  productions  of  the  aristocratic  poet,Canalis  ? 

The  magic  brush,  the  muses  insincere 
Will  not  for  aye  adorn  the  faithful  sheet 

Whereon  I  write. 
And  the  shy  pencil  of  my  mistress  fair 
Will  oft  to  me  confide  her  secret  joy 

Or  her  dumb  grief. 

Ah  !  when  from  this  faded  page  her  fingers  stern 
Shall  seek  accounting  of  the  glorious  lot 

Her  future  now  doth  promise, 
Then,  may  Love  grant  that  of  this  happy  voyage 

The  teeming  memento 
May  be  as  sweet  to  think  on  as  a  cloudless  sky ! 


86  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

"Was  it  really  I  who  inspired  them?"  she  said. 

This  suspicion,  suggested  by  the  coquettish  in- 
stinct of  a  woman  who  liked  to  play  with  fire, 
brought  a  tear  to  Lucien's  eye;  she  soothed  him  by 
kissing  him  on  the  forehead  for  the  first  time.  Lu- 
cien  was  decidedly  a  great  man,  whom  she  proposed 
to  mould;  she  conceived  the  project  of  teaching  him 
Italian  and  German  and  perfecting  his  manners; 
therein  she  found  pretexts  for  having  him  constantly 
with  her,  in  the  face  of  her  wearisome  courtiers. 
What  renewed  interest  it  gave  to  her  life!  She 
took  up  music  again  for  her  poet's  sake,  and  threw 
open  to  him  the  doors  of  the  world  of  music;  she 
played  some  lovely  bits  of  Beethoven  and  enchanted 
him;  happy  in  his  delight,  she  said  to  him  hypo- 
critically, seeing  that  he  was  half-fainting  with 
rapture : 

"Can  you  not  be  content  with  such  happiness  as 
this?" 

The  poor  poet  was  stupid  enough  to  answer : 

"Yes." 

At  last  matters  reached  such  a  point  that  Louise 
had  invited  Lucien  to  dine  with  herself  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Bargeton,  the  preceding  week.  Despite 
the  precaution  of  having  her  husband  present,  the 
whole  town  knew  of  the  fact  and  considered  it  so 
outrageous  that  everyone  asked  everyone  else  if  it 
could  be  true.  It  was  a  shocking  rumor.  To  some 
people,  society  seemed  on  the  verge  of  a  revolution. 
Others  cried: 

"This  is  the  fruit  of  liberal  doctrines!" 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  87 

The  jealous  Du  Chatelet  discovered  that  Madame 
Charlotte,  who  attended  women  in  childbed,  was 
Madame  Chardon,  mother  of  the  Chateaubriand  of 
L'Houmeau,  he  said.  This  expression  was  es- 
teemed a  bon  mot.  Madame  de  Chandour  was  the 
first  to  hurry  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's. 

"Do  you  know  what  all  Angouleme  is  talking 
about,  my  dear  Nais?"  she  said;  "that  wretched 
little  poet's  mother  is  Madame  Charlotte,  who  took 
care  of  my  sister-in-law  when  her  child  was  born 
two  months  ago." 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame  de  Bargeton,  assuming 
a  queenly  air,  "what  is  there  extraordinary  in  that? 
isn't  she  an  apothecary's  widow?  a  poor  lot  for  a 
De  Rubempre!  Suppose  that  we  hadn't  a  sou — 
what  should  we  do  for  a  living,  you  and  I?  how 
would  you  support  your  children?" 

Madame  de  Bargeton's  sang-froid  silenced  the 
lamentations  of  the  nobility.  Great  minds  are 
always  disposed  to  make  a  virtue  of  misfortune. 
Moreover,  there  is  an  invincible  attraction  in  per- 
sisting in  the  doing  of  a  good  deed  which  others 
blame:  innocence  has  the  piquant  relish  of  vice. 
In  the  evening,  Madame  de  Bargeton's  salon  was 
filled  with  her  friends,  who  came  to  remonstrate 
with  her.  She  gave  free  rein  to  her  caustic  wit; 
she  said  that,  if  gentlemen  could  not  be  Molieres  or 
Racines  or  Rousseaus  or  Voltaires  or  Massillons  or 
Beaumarchaises  or  Diderots,  we  must  put  up  with 
upholsterers,  clockmakers,  cutlers,  whose  children 
might  become  great  men.    'She  said  that  genius  was 


88  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

always  of  gentle  birth.  She  reviled  the  clodhoppers 
for  having  so  little  appreciation  of  their  real  inter- 
ests. In  fact,  she  said  many  absurd  things  which 
would  have  enlightened  less  stupid  people,  but  they 
complimented  her  on  her  originality.  Thus  she 
averted  the  storm  by  firing  heavy  guns. 

When  Lucien,  at  her  summons,  entered  for  the 
first  time  the  old  faded  salon  where  four  whist  tables 
were  in  full  blast,  she  received  him  affably,  and 
presented  him  to  her  guests  with  the  air  of  a  queen 
who  proposes  to  be  obeyed.  She  called  the  super- 
intendent of  imposts  Monsieur  Chatelet,  and  turned 
him  to  stone  by  giving  him  to  understand  that  she 
was  aware  of  his  illegal  assumption  of  the  particle 
du.  On  that  evening  Lucien  was  forcibly  thrust 
into  Madame  de  Bargeton's  social  circle;  but  he 
was  accepted  there  as  a  poisonous  substance  which 
everyone  made  a  mental  vow  to  expel  by  sub- 
mitting it  to  the  reactive  agency  of  impertinence. 
Despite  this  triumph,  Na'is  lost  her  empire:  there 
were  dissidents  among  her  subjects,  who  tempted 
her  to  emigrate.  By  Monsieur  Chatelet's  advice, 
Amelie,  who  was  Madame  de  Chandour,  resolved  to 
erect  a  rival  altar  by  receiving  on  Wednesdays. 
Madame  de  Bargeton  opened  her  salon  every  even- 
ing, and  the  people  who  frequented  it  were  such 
slaves  of  routine,  so  thoroughly  accustomed  to  walk 
upon  the  same  carpets,  to  play  on  the  same  back- 
gammon boards,  to  see  the  same  people  and  the 
same  candlesticks,  to  put  on  their  cloaks  and  double- 
soled  shoes  and  hats  in  the  same  hall,  that  they  loved 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  89 

the  very  stairs  as  dearly  as  they  did  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  "They  all  resigned  themselves  to  put 
up  with  the  gold-finch*  of  the  sacred  grove,"  said 
Alexandre  de  Brebian ; — another  bon  mot.  The 
president  of  the  Society  of  Agriculture  finally  ap- 
peased the  sedition  by  a  magisterial  observation. 

"Before  the  Revolution,"  he  said,  "the  greatest 
noblemen  received  Duclos,  Grimm,  Crebillon — all 
of  whom  were  men  of  humble  station  like  this  little 
poet  from  L'Houmeau;  but  they  did  not  admit  tax- 
collectors,  and  that's  what  Chatelet  is,  after  all." 

Du  Chatelet  paid  dear  for  his  introduction  of 
Chardon,  for  everyone  turned  a  cold  shoulder  on 
him.  When  he  found  that  he  was  attacked,  the 
superintendent  of  imposts,  who,  from  the  moment 
that  Madame  de  Bargeton  called  him  Chatelet,  had 
sworn  that  she  should  be  his,  at  once  adopted  the 
views  of  the  mistress  of  the  house;  he  upheld  the 
young  poet  and  declared  himself  his  friend.  This 
great  diplomatist,  whose  services  the  Emperor  had 
so  ill-advisedly  dispensed  with,  made  much  of  Lu- 
cien  and  told  him  that  he  was  his  friend.  To 
launch  the  poet  in  society,  he  gave  a  dinner-party 
at  which  all  the  high  government  officials  were 
present — the  prefect,  the  receiver-general,  the  col- 
onel of  the  regiment  in  garrison,  the  superintendent 
of  the  naval  school  and  the  president  of  the  tribunal. 
The  poor  poet  was  flattered  so  extravagantly  that 
any  other  than  a  young  man  of  twenty-two  would 
have  strongly  suspected  some  fraud  in  the  praise 

*  Cbardonneret. 


90  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

with  which  they  mocked  him.  At  dessert,  Chatelet 
asked  his  rival  to  recite  an  ode  entitled  Sardanapale 
monrant,  the  masterpiece  of  the  moment.  The 
principal  of  the  college,  a  phlegmatic  man,  ap- 
plauded him  loudly,  saying  that  Jean-Baptiste 
Rousseau  had  done  no  better.  Baron  Sixte  Chate- 
let  thought  that  the  little  rhymer  would  burst  sooner 
or  later  in  the  hothouse  of  praise,  or  that,  in  the 
intoxication  of  his  anticipated  glory,  he  would  per- 
mit himself  some  impertinence  which  would  cause 
him  to  be  relegated  to  his  primitive  obscurity. 
Awaiting  the  demise  of  this  genius,  he  seemed  to 
immolate  his  pretensions  at  Madame  de  Bargeton's 
feet;  but,  with  the  shrewdness  of  roues,  he  had  de- 
cided upon  his  plan  of  operations,  and  followed  with 
strategic  attention  the  steps  of  the  two  lovers, 
awaiting  an  opportunity  to  exterminate  Lucien. 

Thereupon  there  arose  in  Angouleme  and  its 
neighborhood  a  dull,  rumbling  sound  that  proclaimed 
the  existence  of  a  great  man  in  Angoumois.  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  was  generally  applauded  for  the 
attentions  she  lavished  upon  this  young  eagle. 
Once  her  conduct  was  approved,  she  was  determined 
to  obtain  general  sanction.  She  announced  through- 
out the  department  with  trumpet  and  drum  an  even- 
ing party  with  ices,  cake  and  tea,  a  great  innovation 
in  a  town  where  tea  was  still  sold  by  the  apothe- 
caries as  a  drug  useful  in  cases  of  indigestion.  The 
flower  of  the  aristocracy  was  invited  to  hear  a  great 
work  which  Lucien  was  to  read.  Louise  concealed 
from    her    friend     the    obstacles   she    had    had   to 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  91 

overcome,  but  she  did  say  a  few  words  to  him  on 
the  subject  of  the  conspiracy  formed  against  him  by 
society;  for  she  did  not  choose  to  leave  him  in 
ignorance  of  the  perils  of  the  career  men  of  genius 
should  follow,  a  career  that  bristles  with  obstacles 
insurmountable  by  merely  mediocre  courage.  She 
used  her  victory  as  a  means  of  inculcating  a  useful 
lesson.  With  her  white  hands  she  pointed  to  re- 
nown as  a  treasure  to  be  purchased  by  constant 
suffering;  she  spoke  of  the  tortures  of  martyrs  to 
be  endured  at  the  stake,  she  buttered  for  him  her 
finest  tartines  and  garnished  them  with  her  most 
pompous  expressions.  It  was  a  sort  of  counterfeit 
of  the  improvisations  that  disfigure  the  novel  Co- 
rinne.  Louise  deemed  herself  so  great  in  her  elo- 
quence, that  she  loved  the  Benjamin  who  inspired 
it  all  the  more;  she  advised  him  to  repudiate  his 
father  boldly,  by  assuming  the  noble  name  of 
Rubempre,  heedless  of  the  outcry  occasioned  by  an 
exchange  which  the  king  would  legitimize.  Being 
connected  with  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  a  De  Bla- 
mont-Chauvry,  who  was  high  in  favor  at  court,  she 
would  undertake  to  obtain  that  favor.  At  those 
words — the  king,  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  the  court, 
— Lucien's  eyes  were  dazzled  as  by  a  display  of 
fireworks,  and  the  necessity  of  that  rechristening 
was  fully  demonstrated. 

"Dear  boy,"  said  Louise,  in  a  tone  of  affectionate 
raillery,  "the  sooner  it  is  done,  the  sooner  it  will 
be  ratified." 

She  raised  one  after  another  the  successive  strata 


92  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

of  the  social  structure,  and  let  the  poet  count  the 
rungs  of  the  ladder  which  he  could  ascend  at  one 
bound  by  virtue  of  this  judicious  decision.  In  an 
instant  she  made  Lucien  renounce  his  plebeian 
ideas  concerning  the  chimerical  equality  of  1793, 
she  aroused  in  him  the  thirst  for  social  distinction 
which  David's  cold  reasoning  had  allayed,  she 
pointed  to  the  higher  levels  of  society  as  the  only 
stage  which  was  suited  to  his  talents.  The  scorn- 
ful liberal  became  a  monarchist  in  petto.  Lucien 
bit  at  the  apple  of  aristocratic  luxury  and  renown. 
He  swore  to  lay  a  crown  at  his  lady's  feet,  even 
though  it  were  stained  with  blood;  he  would  win 
it  at  any  price,  quibuscumque  viis.  To  prove  his 
courage,  he  described  his  present  misery,  which  he 
had  concealed  from  Louise,  taking  counsel  of  that 
indefinable  modesty  characteristic  of  first  loves, 
which  forbids  a  young  man  to  display  his  great 
qualities,  he  takes  such  keen  delight  in  having  his 
heart  appreciated,  even  in  its  disguise.  He  de- 
scribed the  troubles  of  poverty,  endured  with  pride, 
his  employment  with  David  and  his  nights  passed  in 
study.  This  youthful  ardor  reminded  Madame  de 
Bargeton  of  the  young  colonel  of  twenty-six,  and 
her  expression  softened.  When  he  saw  that  his 
imposing  mistress  was  moved,  Lucien  seized  a  hand 
that  was  abandoned  to  him  and  kissed  it  with  the 
frenzy  of  a  boy,  a  poet,  a  lover.  Louise  went  so  far 
as  to  allow  the  apothecary's  son  to  reach  her  brow 
and  to  press  his  burning  lips  upon  it. 

"Child!  child!  if  anyone  should  see  us,  I  should 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  93 

make   a   very   ridiculous    appearance,"   she   said, 
rousing  herself  from  an  ecstatic  torpor. 

During  that  evening,  Madame  de  Bargeton's  wit 
wrought  great  havoc  among  what  she  called  Lucien's 
prejudices.  To  hear  her,  you  would  have  said  that 
men  of  genius  had  neither  brothers  nor  sisters, 
fathers  nor  mothers;  the  great  works  they  were 
destined  to  build  required  them  to  be  selfish  in  ap- 
pearance, by  compelling  them  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing to  their  own  grandeur.  If  the  family  suffered 
at  first  from  the  pitiless  exactions  enforced  by  a 
gigantic  brain,  later  it  would  recover  a  hundredfold 
the  value  of  the  sacrifices  of  every  nature  demanded 
by  the  first  conflicts  of  a  disputed  royalty,  by  shar- 
ing the  fruits  of  victory.  Genius  depended  only 
upon  itself;  it  was  the  sole  judge  of  its  resources, 
for  it  alone  knew  the  goal  to  be  reached :  he  ought 
therefore  to  place  himself  above  the  laws,  being 
called  upon  as  he  was  to  revise  them ;  moreover, 
the  man  who  fixes  his  grasp  upon  his  epoch  can 
take  everything,  risk  everything,  for  everything  is 
his.  She  referred  to  the  early  life  of  Bernard 
Palissy,  Louis  XL,  Fox,  Napoleon,  Christopher 
Columbus  and  Csesar,  of  all  the  illustrious  gamblers, 
who  were  at  first  crushed  by  debt,  or  poor,  unappre- 
ciated, looked  upon  as  madmen,  bad  fathers,  bad 
sons,  bad  brothers,  but  who  subsequently  became 
the  pride  of  their  families,  of  their  countries,  of  the 
world. 

These  arguments  harmonized  with  Lucien's  secret 
vices  and  hastened  the  corruption  of  his  heart;  for, 


94  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

in  the  ardor  of  his  desires,  he  admitted  a  priori 
methods.  But  not  to'succeed  constitutes  the  crime 
of  social  llse-majeste.  Does  not  one  who  fails, 
destroy  all  the  bourgeois  virtues  that  form  the  basis 
of  society,  which  expels  with  horror  the  Mariuses 
seated  before  its  ruins?  Lucien,  who  did  not 
recognize  himself  between  the  infamy  of  the 
galleys  and  the  laurel  wreaths  of  genius,  hovered 
above  the  Sinai  of  the  prophets  without  seeing  be- 
neath him  the  Dead  Sea,  the  ghastly  shroud  of 
Gomorrha. 

Louise  so  completely  freed  her  poet's  mind  and 
heart  from  the  swaddling-clothes  in  which  his  life 
in  the  provinces  had  enveloped  them,  that  Lucien 
determined  to  put  her  to  the  test,  in  order  to  ascer- 
tain whether  he  could  conquer  that  queenly  quarry, 
without  having  to  undergo  the  mortification  of  a  re- 
fusal. The  projected  evening  party  gave  him  an 
opportunity  to  make  the  test.  Ambition  was  min- 
gled with  his  love.  He  loved  and  he  wished  to  rise, 
a  twofold  sentiment  very  natural  in  young  men 
who  have  a  heart  to  satisfy  and  poverty  to  struggle 
against.  By  inviting  all  its  children  to  one  great 
festival,  society  awakens  their  ambitions  in  the 
morning  of  life.  It  strips  youth  of  its  charms  and 
vitiates  most  of  its  generous  sentiments  by  mingling 
worldly  scheming  with  them.  Poesy  would  have 
it  otherwise;  but  fact  too  often  gives  the  lie  to  the 
fiction  one  would  like  to  believe,  to  justify  us  in  rep- 
resenting young  men  as  other  than  they  are  in  the 
nineteenth    century.      Lucien's   scheming  seemed 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  95 

to  him  to  have  no  other  object  than  the  promo- 
tion of  an  estimable  sentiment,  his  affection  for 
David. 

He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  his  Louise,  for  he  found 
that  he  was  bolder  with  a  pen  in  his  hand  than 
with  words  in  his  mouth.  In  a  dozen  sheets,  three 
times  rewritten,  he  told  of  his  father's  genius,  his 
disappointed  hopes,  and  the  horrible  poverty  that 
weighed  upon  him.  He  described  his  dear  sister 
as  an  angel,  David  as  a  future  Cuvier,  who,  besides 
being  a  great  man,  was  a  father,  a  brother,  a  friend 
to  him;  he  should  deem  himself  unworthy  of  his 
Louise's  love,  his  first  glory,  if  he  did  not  ask  her 
to  do  for  David  what  she  did  for  him.  He  would 
renounce  her  forever  rather  than  be  false  to  David 
Sechard;  he  desired  that  David  should  witness  his 
triumph.  He  wrote  one  of  those  wild  letters  in 
which  young  men  threaten  pistols  in  case  of  a  re- 
fusal, letters  filled  with  the  casuistry  of  childhood, 
with  the  unreasoning  logic  of  noble  minds,  fascinat- 
ing verbosity,  embellished  with  those  artless  de- 
clarations that  escape  from  the  heart  unknown  to 
the  writer,  and  that  women  like  so  well.  After  he 
had  handed  the  letter  to  the  maid,  Lucien  went  to 
the  office  to  pass  the  day  correcting  proofs,  superin- 
tending some  work  that  was  in  progress  and  arrang- 
ing a  few  small  matters  that  needed  attention, 
without  saying  a  word  to  David.  When  the  heart 
is  still  in  its  infancy,  young  men  sometimes  display 
such  sublime  reserve.  Perhaps,  too,  Lucien  was 
beginning  to  dread  the  axe  of  Phocion,  which  David 


96  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

could  handle  so  well ;  perhaps  he  feared  a  penetrat- 
ing glance  that  would  reach  the  very  bottom  of  his 
heart.  After  reading  Chenier,  his  secret  had  passed 
from  his  heart  to  his  lips,  surprised  by  a  reproach 
which  he  felt  like  the  finger  the  surgeon  lays  upon 
a  wound. 


Now,  imagine,  if  you  can,  the  thoughts  that 
thronged  Lucien's  mind  as  he  went  down  from  An- 
gouleme  to  L'Houmeau.  Was  the  great  lady  angry  ? 
would  she  receive  David  at  her  house?  would  not 
he,  ambitious  wight,  be  hurled  back  into  his  hole  at 
L'Houmeau?  Although,  before  he  kissed  Louise  on 
the  forehead,  Lucien  had  been  able  to  measure  the 
distance  that  separates  a  queen  from  her  favorite, 
he  did  not  say  to  himself  that  David  could  not  cover, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  space  it  had  taken 
him  five  months  to  travel.  Not  knowing  how  ab- 
solute was  the  decree  of  ostracism  pronounced 
against  people  of  humble  extraction,  he  did  not 
know  that  a  second  experiment  of  the  kind  would  be 
Madame  de  Bargeton's  ruin.  Accused  and  convicted 
of  having  kept  low  company,  Louise  would  be 
obliged  to  leave  the  town,  while  her  caste  would 
shun  her  as  a  leper  was  shunned  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  superfine  aristocratic  clan,  and  the 
clergy  too,  would  defend  Na'is  against  all  comers,  in 
case  she  should  allow  herself  to  commit  a  sin;  but 
the  crime  of  consorting  with  bad  company  would 
never  be  overlooked;  for,  if  we  excuse  the  sins  of 
the  ruling  powers,  we  condemn  them  after  their 
abdication.  And  would  not  receiving  David  be 
equivalent  to  abdication?  Even  if  Lucien  did  not 
7  (97) 


98  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

grasp  that  side  of  the  question,  his  aristocratic  in- 
stinct gave  him  a  premonition  of  many  other  diffi- 
culties, which  filled  him  with  dismay.  Nobility  of 
sentiment  does  not  invariably  impart  nobility  of 
manners.  Although  Racine  had  the  air  of  the 
noblest  of  courtiers,  Corneille  strongly  resembled  a 
cattle  dealer.  Descartes  had  the  appearance  of  a 
respectable  Dutch  tradesman.  Visitors  at  Breda, 
meeting  Montesquieu  with  his  rake  over  his  shoulder 
and  his  nightcap  on  his  head,  often  took  him  for  a 
common  gardener.  Social  polish,  when  it  is  not  a 
gift  of  noble  birth,  an  accomplishment  imbibed  with 
the  mother's  milk  or  transmitted  in  the  blood,  con- 
stitutes an  education  in  itself,  which  chance  should 
second  by  some  grace  of  figure,  by  some  distinction 
of  feature,  or  by  an  intonation  of  the  voice. 

All  these  great  little  things  were  wanting  in 
David,  while  nature  had  plentifully  endowed  his 
friend  with  them.  Of  gentle  birth  on  his  mother's 
side,  Lucien  had  everything  even  to  the  curved 
instep  of  the  Frank,  while  David  Sechard  had  the 
flat  foot  of  the  Goth  and  the  chest  and  shoulders  of 
his  father  the  pressman.  Lucien  realized  how  the 
satirical  remarks  would  rain  upon  David,  he  could 
almost  see  the  smile  Madame  de  Bargeton  would 
repress.  In  fact,  without  being  precisely  ashamed 
of  his  brother,  he  promised  himself  that  he  would 
not  again  listen  to  his  first  impulse,  but  would  re- 
flect more  fully  in  the  future.  Then,  after  the  hour 
of  poetry  and  devotion,  after  reading  works  that 
showed  the  two  friends  the  vast  field  of  literature 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  99 

illumined  by  a  new  sun,  the  hour  of  policy  and 
scheming  struck  for  Lucien.  Upon  returning  to 
L'Houmeau,  he  repented  of  his  letter  and  would 
have  liked  to  recall  it;  for  he  saw  as  through  a  vista, 
the  pitiless  laws  of  society.  Divining  how  power- 
fully acquired  fortune  would  assist  ambition,  it  cost 
him  dear  to  withdraw  his  foot  from  the  first  rung  of 
the  ladder  by  which  he  was  to  mount  to  the  assault 
upon  worldly  grandeur.  Then  the  images  of  his 
simple,  tranquil  life,  adorned  with  the  brightest 
flowers  of  sentiment;  David,  a  veritable  genius, 
who  had  so  nobly  assisted  him,  who  would  give  his 
life  for  him  if  need  were;  his  mother,  so  great 
a  lady  in  her  humble  station,  who  believed  him 
to  be  as  good  as  he  was  clever;  his  sister,  so 
charming  in  her  resignation,  his  pure  childhood  and 
his  still  unsullied  conscience;  his  hopes,  from  which 
no  blast  of  the  north  wind  had  yet  stripped  their 
leaves, — everything  bloomed  anew  in  his  memory. 
Thereupon  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was  far  better 
to  pierce  the  dense  battalions  of  the  aristocratic  or 
bourgeois  multitude  by  the  vigorous  blows  of 
merited  triumph  than  to  succeed  by  the  favors  of  a 
woman.  His  genius  would  shine  forth  sooner  or 
later,  like  that  of  so  many  men,  his  predecessors, 
who  had  conquered  society;  and  then  women  would 
love  him !  The  example  of  Napoleon,  so  disastrous 
to  the  nineteenth  century  by  reason  of  the  preten- 
sions inspired  in  so  many  men  of  moderate  capaci- 
ties, appeared  to  Lucien,  and  he  cast  his  selfish 
scheming  to  the  winds,  rebuking  himself  for  it.    So 


IOO  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

Lucien  was  constituted :  he  veered  from  bad  to  good, 
from  good  to  bad,  with  equal  facility. 

Instead  of  the  love  that  the  scholar  carries  with 
him  into  retirement,  Lucien  had  been  conscious  for 
a  month  past  of  a  sort  of  shame  when  he  saw  the 
shop,  with  the  following  sign,  in  yellow  letters  on 
a  green  background,  over  the  door : 

postel,  Druggist,  Successor  to  Chardon. 

His  father's  name,  displayed  thus  in  a  street 
through  which  all  the  vehicles  passed,  wounded  his 
eyes.  In  the  evening,  when  he  passed  out  through 
the  door,  embellished  with  a  small  grated  wicket  in 
wretched  taste,  on  his  way  to  Beaulieu,  to  walk 
among  the  most  fashionable  young  people  of  the 
Upper  Town,  with  Madame  de  Bargeton  on  his  arm, 
he  bitterly  deplored  the  lack  of  harmony  between 
that  abode  and  his  good  fortune. 

"To  love  Madame  de  Bargeton,  perhaps  to  possess 
her  soon,  and  to  live  in  this  rat's  nest!"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  walked  through  the  passageway  into 
the  little  courtyard  where  several  bundles  of  boiled 
herbs  were  spread  out  along  the  wall,  where  the 
apprentice  was  scouring  the  retorts  from  the  labo- 
ratory, and  where  Monsieur  Postel,  in  his  working 
apron,  retort  in  hand,  was  scrutinizing  a  chemical 
product  and  glancing  now  and  again  into  the  shop; 
if  he  watched  his  drug  too  attentively,  he  kept  his 
ear  on  the  bell. 

The  odor  of  camomile,  mint  and  divers  distilled 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  101 

plants  filled  the  courtyard  and  the  modest  apartment 
reached  by  one  of  the  steep  stairways  called  millers' 
stairways,  with  no  other  railing  than  two  cords. 
Above  was  the  only  attic  chamber,  in  which  Lucien 
lived. 

"Good-day,  my  boy,"  said  Monsieur  Postel,  a 
perfect  type  of  the  provincial  shopkeeper.  "How 
goes  our  little  health?  I've  just  been  making  an  ex- 
periment on  treacle,  but  it  would  take  your  father 
to  find  what  I'm  looking  for.  He  was  a  famous 
fellow,  he  was!  If  I  had  known  his  secret  remedy 
for  the  gout,  we  would  both  be  riding  in  our  car- 
riages to-day!" 

Not  a  week  passed  that  the  druggist,  who  was  as 
stupid  as  he  was  kind,  did  not  stab  Lucien  to  the 
heart  by  talking  about  his  father's  unfortunate  re- 
serve concerning  his  discovery. 

"It's  a  great  misfortune,"  Lucien  replied  briefly, 
beginning  to  find  his  father's  pupil  exceedingly 
vulgar,  after  having  blessed  him  many  a  time:  for 
honest  Postel  had  assisted  his  master's  widow  and 
children  more  than  once. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Monsieur 
Postel,  laying  his  test  tube  on  the  laboratory  table. 

"Has  any  letter  come  for  me?" 

"Yes,  one  that  smells  like  balsam!  it's  on  the 
counter  by  my  desk." 

Madame  de  Bargeton's  letter  lying  among  the 
bottles  of  a  pharmacy !     Lucien  darted  into  the  shop. 

"Make  haste,  Lucien!  your  dinner's  been  wait- 
ing for  you  an  hour,  it  will  be  cold,"  cried  a  sweet 


102  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

voice  through  an  open  window;  but  Lucien  did  not 
hear. 

"Your  brother's  daft,  mademoiselle,"  said  Postel 
with  a  sniff. 

This  old  bachelor,  who  much  resembled  a  small 
cask  of  eau-de-vie  upon  which  a  painter's  fancy  had 
drawn  a  coarse,  rubicund  face,  pitted  with  the  small- 
pox, assumed  as  he  looked  at  Eve  a  ceremonious  and 
at  the  same  time  a  seductive  air,  which  proved  that 
he  was  thinking  of  marrying  his  predecessor's 
daughter,  but  could  not  put  an  end  to  the  conflict 
between  love  and  self-interest  in  his  heart.  And 
he  often  said  to  Lucien,  with  a  smile,  the  words 
which  he  now  repeated  when  the  young  man  again 
passed  him : 

"Your  sister's  famously  pretty!  You're  not  bad 
either!     Your  father  did  everything  well." 

Eve  was  a  tall  brunette,  with  black  hair  and  blue 
eyes.  Although  she  showed  symptoms  of  possess- 
ing a  virile  character,  she  was  sweet,  affectionate 
and  devoted.  Her  innocence,  her  artlessness,  her 
tranquil  resignation  to  a  life  of  hard  work,  her  vir- 
tue, which  no  slanderous  tongue  assailed,  were  well 
calculated  to  attract  David  Sechard.  So  it  was, 
that,  from  their  first  meeting,  a  quiet,  simple  pas- 
sion, of  the  German  sort,  had  stirred  both  their 
hearts,  unattended  by  noisy  demonstrations  or  hasty 
declarations.  Each  of  them  had  thought  secretly  of 
the  other,  as  if  they  were  kept  asunder  by  some 
jealous  husband,  whom  that  sentiment  would  have 
offended.      Both   hid  their  feelings   from   Lucien, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  103 

whose  prospects  they  may  perhaps  have  thought 
they  were  likely  to  injure.  David  was  afraid  of  not 
pleasing  Eve,  who,  on  her  side,  was  influenced  by 
the  timidity  natural  to  poverty.  A  real  working- 
girl  would  have  been  bold,  but  a  well-bred  girl,  who 
has  fallen  upon  evil  days,  adapts  herself  to  her  hard 
lot.  Modest  in  appearance,  proud  in  reality,  Eve 
did  not  choose  to  run  after  the  son  of  a  man  who 
was  supposed  to  be  wealthy.  At  that  moment, 
those  people  who  were  familiar  with  the  increasing 
value  of  real  estate  estimated  the  estate  at  Marsac 
at  more  than  eighty  thousand  francs,  without  count- 
ing the  outlying  territory  that  old  Sechard,  with  his 
accumulated  savings,  always  lucky  in  his  crops  and 
a  shrewd  hand  at  selling  them,  was  certain  to  add 
to  it  as  occasion  offered.  David  was  perhaps  the 
only  person  who  knew  nothing  of  his  father's  for- 
tune. To  him,  Marsac  was  a  hovel  purchased  in 
1810  for  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand  francs,  to  which 
he  went  once  a  year  at  harvest  time,  and  where  his 
father  walked  him  about  among  the  vines,  boasting 
of  crops  that  the  printer  never  saw  and  that  he 
cared  very  little  about. 

The  love  of  a  student,  accustomed  to  solitude  and 
inclined  to  magnify  his  sentiments  while  exaggerat- 
ing difficulties,  required  to  be  encouraged;  for,  to 
David,  Eve  was  more  imposing  than  a  great  lady 
is  to  a  simple  clerk.  Awkward  and  ill  at  ease  in 
his  idol's  presence,  in  as  great  haste  to  depart  as  to 
arrive,  the  printer  restrained  his  passion  instead  of 
expressing  it.     Often,   in  the  evening,  he  would 


104  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

invent  some  pretext  for  consulting  Lucien  and  would 
go  down  from  Place  du  Murier  to  L'Houmeau,  by 
way  of  Porte  Palet;  but,  as  he  drew  near  the  green 
door  with  the  iron  grating,  he  would  turn  and  fly, 
fearing  that  he  might  be  too  late,  or  that  he  would 
seem  importunate  to  Eve,  who  was  doubtless  in 
bed.  Although  this  great  love  manifested  itself 
only  in  small  things,  Eve  fully  understood  it;  she 
was  flattered,  without  pride,  to  find  herself  the 
object  of  the  profound  respect  expressed  in  David's 
glances,  his  words  and  his  manner ;  but  the  printer's 
greatest  charm  was  his  fanatical  adoration  of  Lu- 
cien: he  had  divined  the  surest  way  to  gratify  Eve. 
In  order  to  make  clear  in  what  respect  the  silent 
pleasures  of  their  love  differed  from  more  tumul- 
tuous passions,  we  must  compare  it  to  the  wild 
flowers  as  opposed  to  the  brilliant  products  of  the 
flower-garden.  There  were  glances  as  soft  and 
delicate  as  the  blue  lotus  that  floats  upon  the  water, 
expressions  as  fleeting  as  the  faint  perfume  of  the 
eglantine,  as  melancholy  and  tender  as  the  velvety 
moss:  flowers  of  two  lovely  hearts  blooming  in  rich, 
fruitful,  unchanging  soil.  Several  times  Eve  had 
caught  glimpses  of  the  strength  hidden  beneath  that 
weakness ;  she  was  so  grateful  to  David  for  all  he 
did  not  dare,  that  the  most  trivial  incident  was 
likely  to  lead  to  a  closer  union  of  their  hearts. 

Lucien  found  the  door  opened  by  Eve  and  took 
his  seat,  without  speaking,  at  a  small  table,  con- 
sisting of  a  board  placed  upon  a  stool,  with  notable- 
cloth,  on  which  his  cover  was  laid.     The  poor  little 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  105 

household  possessed  but  three  silver  covers,  and 
Eve  used  them  all  for  her  darling  brother. 

"What's  that  you  are  reading?"  she  said,  after 
she  had  placed  upon  the  table  a  plate  that  she 
took  from  the  fire,  and  had  extinguished  the  flame 
in  her  movable  stove  by  covering  it  with  the 
snuffers. 

Lucien  did  not  reply.  Eve  took  a  small  plate  on 
which  some  vine-leaves  were  tastefully  arranged 
and  put  it  on  the  table  with  a  small  jug  of  cream. 

"See,  Lucien,  I  have  some  strawberries  for  you." 

Lucien  was  paying  such  close  attention  to  his 
reading  that  he  did  not  hear.  Eve  thereupon  took 
a  seat  beside  him,  without  a  murmur;  for  a 
sister's  feeling  for  her  brother  is  such  that  she 
takes  a  vast  amount  of  pleasure  in  having  him  treat 
her  without  ceremony. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  she  cried, 
as  she  saw  tears  glistening  in  her  brother's  eyes. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  Eve,"  he  said,  taking  her  by 
the  waist,  drawing  her  to  him  and  kissing  her  on 
the  forehead  and  the  hair  and  the  neck  with  aston- 
ishing effusiveness. 

"You  are  hiding  something  from  me?" 

"Well,  yes,  she  loves  me!" 

"I  knew  very  well  that  it  wasn't  I  you  were 
kissing,"  said  the  poor  sister  in  a  pouting  tone, 
and  blushing. 

"We  shall  all  be  happy,"  cried  Lucien,  gulping 
down  his  soup  in  great  spoonfuls. 

"We?"  Eve  repeated. 


106  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

Inspired  by  the  same  presentiment  that  had  seized 
upon  David,  she  added: 

"You  will  care  less  for  us!" 

"How  can  you  think  that,  if  you  know  me?" 

Eve  put  out  her  hand  to  press  his;  then  she  took 
away  the  empty  plate  and  the  brown  earthenware 
soup  tureen,  and  produced  the  dish  she  had  pre- 
pared. Instead  of  eating,  Lucien  reread  Madame 
de  Bargeton's  letter  which  the  discreet  Eve  did  not 
ask  to  see,  so  much  respect  had  she  for  her  brother : 
if  he  chose  to  tell  her  about  it,  she  was  willing  to 
wait;  if  he  did  not  choose  to,  could  she  demand  it? 
She  waited.     The  letter  was  as  follows: 

"  My  friend,  why  should  I  refuse  to  your  brother  in  knowl- 
edge the  support  I  have  given  you?  In  my  eyes,  all  talents 
have  equal  rights ;  but  you  do  not  know  the  prejudices  of 
the  persons  who  belong  to  my  social  circle.  We  cannot 
make  those  who  compose  the  aristocracy  of  ignorance  recog- 
nize nobility  of  mind.  If  I  am  not  sufficiently  powerful  to 
force  Monsieur  David  Sechard  upon  them,  I  will  willingly 
sacrifice  those  poor  people  to  you.  That  will  be  an  old-fash- 
ioned hecatomb.  But,  my  dear  friend,  of  course  you  do  not 
wish  to  force  me  to  accept  the  society  of  a  person  whose 
mind  or  whose  manners  may  not  please  me.  Your  flattery 
has  taught  me  how  easily  friendship  is  blinded !  Will  you 
take  it  ill  of  me,  if  I  place  a  restriction  upon  my  consent?  I 
wish  to  see  your  friend,  to  make  up  my  mind  about  him,  to 
ascertain  for  myself,  in  the  interest  of  your  future,  if  you  are 
not  deceiving  yourself.  Is  this  not  one  of  the  motherly  duties 
which  should  be  undertaken,  my  dear  poet,  by 

"LOUISE  DE  NEGREPELISSE?" 

Lucien  did  not  know  how  artfully  the  yes  is  used 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  107 

in  the  best  society  to  lead  up  to  a  no,  and  the  no  to 
lead  up  to  a  yes.  This  letter  was  in  his  eyes  a 
triumph.  David  would  go  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's 
and  would  shine  there  in  all  the  majesty  of  genius. 
In  the  intoxication  caused  by  a  victory  which  led 
him  to  believe  in  the  power  of  his  ascendancy  over 
mankind,  he  assumed  such  a  proud  attitude,  such 
a  world  of  hope  was  reflected  upon  his  face  in  the 
radiant  expression  it  wore,  that  his  sister  could  not 
refrain  from  telling  him  that  he  was  handsome. 

"If  that  woman  has  any  wit  at  all,  she  must  love 
you  dearly !  And  how  unhappy  she  will  be  to-night, 
for  all  the  ladies  will  be  making  eyes  at  you.  You 
will  look  very  handsome  reading  your  Saint  Jean 
dansPathmos!  I  wish  I  were  a  mouse  and  could 
slip  into  the  room!  Come,  I  have  got  your  clothes 
ready  in  mother's  room." 

The  room  in  question  denoted  respectable  poverty. 
There  was  a  walnut  bedstead  with  white  curtains, 
and  at  the  foot  a  narrow  strip  of  green  carpet.  A 
commode  with  a  wooden  top,  with  a  mirror,  and 
some  walnut  chairs  completed  the  furniture.  A 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  was  reminiscent  of  bygone 
affluence.  There  were  white  curtains  at  the  win- 
dow. The  walls  were  hung  with  a  gray  flowered 
paper.  The  painted  floor  was  scrubbed  by  Eve  and 
fairly  shone  with  cleanliness.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  was  a  small  table  upon  which  were  three  cups 
and  a  sugar-bowl  of  Limoges  porcelain  on  a  red 
plate  with  a  gilt  border.  Eve  slept  in  a  closet  ad- 
joining, which  contained  a  narrow  bed,  an  old  couch 


108  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

and  a  work-table  by  the  window.  The  small 
dimensions  of  this  seaman's  cabin  made  it  neces- 
sary that  the  glazed  door  should  be  always  left 
open,  to  admit  fresh  air.  Despite  the  straitened 
circumstances  which  these  articles  revealed,  the 
modesty  of  a  studious  life  breathed  there.  To  those 
who  knew  the  mother  and  her  children,  the  sight 
was  affecting  yet  harmonious. 

Lucien  was  tying  his  cravat  when  David's  step 
was  heard  in  the  little  courtyard,  and  the  printer 
appeared  at  once  with  the  gait  and  manner  of  a  man 
in  a  hurry. 

"Well,  David,"  cried  his  ambitious  friend,  "we 
triumph!  she  loves  me!  you  are  to  go." 

"No,"  said  the  printer  with  some  embarrassment; 
"I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  this  proof  of  your 
affection,  which  has  caused  me  to  reflect  very  seri- 
ously. My  life,  Lucien,  is  marked  out  for  me.  1 
am  David  Sechard,  the  king's  printer  at  Angouleme, 
whose  name  is  to  be  read  on  all  the  blank  walls,  at 
the  foot  of  the  posters.  In  the  eyes  of  people  of 
that  caste,  I  am  a  mechanic,  a  tradesman,  if  you 
choose,  but  a  man  in  business  with  a  shop,  on  Rue 
de  Beaulieu,  corner  of  Place  du  Murier.  I  have 
neither  the  fortune  of  a  Keller,  nor  the  renown  of  a 
Desplein,  two  varieties  of  power  which  the  nobility 
are  still  trying  to  deny,  but  which — I  agree  with 
them  in  this — amount  to  nothing  without  the  tact 
and  manners  of  the  gentleman.  In  what  way  can 
1  justify  this  sudden  elevation?  I  should  make 
myself  a  laughing-stock  to  the  bourgeois  as  well  as 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  109 

to  the  nobles.  You  are  in  a  different  position.  A 
proof-reader  is  bound  to  nothing.  You  are  working 
to  acquire  certain  knowledge  that  is  indispensable 
to  success,  you  can  explain  your  present  occupation 
by  your  future.  Besides,  you  can  take  up  some- 
thing else  to-morrow,  study  law  or  diplomacy,  or 
enter  the  government  employ.  In  short,  you  are 
neither  numbered  nor  boxed  up.  Make  the  most  of 
your  social  virginity,  walk  alone  and  put  your  hand 
upon  the  honors  that  are  within  your  reach!  Enjoy 
to  the  full  all  kinds  of  pleasure,  even  those  that  are 
due  to  vanity.  Be  happy;  I  shall  rejoice  in  your 
success;  you  will  be  a  second  myself.  Yes,  my 
thoughts  will  enable  me  to  live  your  life.  Yours  be 
the  fe'tes,  the  excitement  of  society  and  the  swift 
movement  of  its  intrigues.  Mine  the  sober,  labo- 
rious life  of  the  man  of  business  and  the  slow  occu- 
pations of  science.  You  will  be  our  aristocracy," 
he  said,  glancing  at  Eve.  "If  you  fall,  you  will 
find  my  arm  ready  to  support  you.  If  you  have 
reason  to  complain  of  treachery,  you  can  take 
refuge  in  our  hearts,  there  you  will  find  unalterable 
love.  Patronage,  favor,  good-will,  divided  between 
two,  might  become  weary,  we  should  mutually  in- 
jure each  other ;  go  forward,  you  can  tow  me  behind, 
if  need  be.  Far  from  envying  you,  I  devote  myself 
to  you.  What  you  have  done  for  me,  running  the 
risk  of  losing  your  benefactress,  your  mistress  per- 
haps, rather  than  abandon  me  or  deny  me,  that 
simple,  yet  grand  thing,  Lucien,  would  bind  me  to 
you  forever,  if  we  were  not  already  brothers.     Have 


HO  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

no  remorse  or  anxiety  because  you  seem  to  take 
the  more  important  part.  This  division  a  la  Mont- 
gomery is  to  my  taste.  Indeed,  even  if  you  should 
cause  me  some  suffering,  who  knows  if  I  should  not 
still  be  your  debtor?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  cast  the  most  timid  of  glances 
toward  Eve,  whose  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  for 
she  had  guessed  everything. 

"At  all  events,"  he  continued,  still  addressing 
the  wondering  Lucien,  "you  have  done  well,  you 
have  a  pretty  figure,  you  wear  your  clothes  grace- 
fully, you  look  like  a  gentleman  in  your  blue  coat 
with  yellow  buttons,  and  your  plain  nankeen  trou- 
sers; but  I  should  look  like  a  workingman  among 
all  those  people;  I  should  be  awkward  and  embar- 
rassed and  should  either  say  something  foolish  or 
else  say  nothing  at  all;  you  can  satisfy  all  preju- 
dices on  the  subject  of  names  by  taking  your 
mother's  name  and  calling  yourself  Lucien  de 
Rubempre;  but  I  am  and  shall  always  be  David 
Sechard.  Everything  would  tend  to  serve  you  and 
to  injure  me  in  the  social  circle  you  are  about  to 
enter.  You  are  made  to  succeed  there.  The  women 
will  adore  your  angel's  face;  won't  they,  Eve?" 

Lucien  threw  his  arms  about  David's  neck  and 
kissed  him.  This  modesty  put  an  end  at  once  to 
many  doubts,  many  difficulties.  How  could  he 
have  failed  to  feel  redoubled  affection  for  a  man 
whose  friendship  had  led  him  to  make  the  same  re- 
flections that  his  own  ambition  had  suggested  to 
him  ?     The  path   of  the  ambitious  man  and  lover 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  III 

was  made  smooth,  the  heart  of  the  young  man  and 
friend  overflowed.  It  was  one  of  those  rare 
moments  when  all  the  fibres  are  gently  drawn 
tight,  when  all  the  chords  vibrate  and  give  forth 
a  full  volume  of  sound.  But  this  manifestation  of 
the  wisdom  of  a  noble  soul  aroused  in  Lucien  the 
tendency  that  leads  a  man  to  refer  everything  to 
himself.  All  of  us  say,  more  or  less,  like  Louis 
XIV.  :  "I  am  the  State !"  The  undivided  affection 
of  his  mother  and  sister,  the  devotion  of  David,  the 
habit  of  seeing  the  secret  efforts  of  those  three 
always  expended  for  his  benefit,  had  given  him  the 
vices  of  a  spoiled  child,  and  engendered  in  him  the 
selfishness  which  devours  noble  impulses,  and 
which  Madame  de  Bargeton  encouraged  by  inciting 
him  to  forget  his  obligations  to  his  mother  and  sister 
and  to  David.  Nothing  of  the  sort  had  happened 
yet ;  but  was  there  not  reason  to  fear  that,  in  draw- 
ing the  circle  of  his  ambition  about  him,  he  would 
be  compelled  to  think  only  of  himself,  in  order  to 
maintain  himself  therein? 

This  effusion  of  sentiment  having  passed,  David 
suggested  to  Lucien  that  his  poem  of  Saint  Jean 
dans  Pathmos  was  perhaps  too  biblical  to  be  read 
before  an  assemblage  to  whom  the  apocalyptic  poesy 
was  likely  to  be  unfamiliar.  Lucien,  who  was 
about  to  appear  before  the  most  censorious  audience 
in  the  department  of  the  Charente,  seemed  dis- 
turbed. David  advised  him  to  take  Andre  de 
Chenier  in  his  pocket  and  to  substitute  a  certain 
for  an  uncertain  pleasure.     Lucien  read  perfectly, 


112  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

he  must  necessarily  please  his  hearers,  and  his 
modesty  would  undoubtedly  be  of  service  to  him. 
Like  most  young  people,  they  attributed  their  own 
intelligence  and  their  own  virtues  to  people  in  so- 
ciety. 

If  youth  which  has  not  yet  failed  is  unindul- 
gent  to  the  mistakes  of  others,  it  also  attributes 
to  them  its  magnificent  beliefs.  Indeed,  one  must 
have  had  a  thorough  experience  of  life  before  real- 
izing that,  as  Raphael  has  well  said,  to  understand 
is  to  equal.  Generally  speaking,  the  quality  of 
mind  that  is  essential  to  the  true  understanding  of 
poetry  is  rare  in  France,  where  wit  soon  dries  up 
the  source  of  the  blessed  tears  of  ecstasy,  where  no 
one  cares  to  take  the  pains  to  decipher  the  sublime, 
or  to  probe  it  in  order  to  measure  its  infinite  depth. 
Lucien  was  about  to  undergo  his  first  experience  of 
worldly  ignorance  and  indifference!  He  went  to 
David's  house  to  get  the  volume  of  poems. 

When  the  two  lovers  were  left  alone,  David  was 
more  embarrassed  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life.  A  prey  to  innumerable  fears,  he  craved  and 
dreaded  words  of  praise,  he  longed  to  escape,  for 
modesty  too  has  its  coquetry!  The  poor  fellow 
dared  not  say  a  word  which  would  seem  like 
angling  for  thanks;  every  word  that  came  to  his 
lips  seemed  compromising,  and  so  he  held  his  peace, 
maintaining  the  attitude  of  a  convicted  criminal. 
Eve,  divining  the  torments  of  his  modesty,  chose  to 
enjoy  the  silence;  but  when  David  began  twisting 
his  hat,  as  if  to  take  his  leave,  she  smiled. 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  113 

"Monsieur  David,"  said  she,  "if  you  do  not  pass 
the  evening  at  Madame  de  Bargeton's,  we  can  pass 
it  together.  The  weather  is  fine,  would  you  like  to 
walk  along  the  river  ?    We  will  talk  about  Lucien. " 

David  longed  to  throw  himself  on  his  face  at  the 
lovely  creature's  feet  The  sound  of  Eve's  voice 
contained  an  unhoped-for  reward;  by  the  softness 
of  her  accent,  she  had  swept  away  all  the  difficulties 
of  the  situation ;  her  suggestion  was  more  than 
praise,  it  was  the  first  favor  granted  by  love. 

"Give  me  a  few  moments  to  dress,"  she  said,  in 
response  to  a  gesture  from  David. 

David,  who  had  never,  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
life,  known  what  a  tune  was,  went  out  humming, 
to  the  amazement  of  honest  Postel,  who  at  once  con- 
ceived strong  suspicions  as  to  the  relations  between 
Eve  and  the  printer. 


The  most  trivial  incidents  of  that  evening  had  a 
great  effect  upon  Lucien,  whose  nature  made  him 
prone  to  listen  to  first  impressions. 

Like  all  inexperienced  lovers,  he  arrived  so  early 
that  Louise  was  not  yet  in  the  salon.  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton  was  there  alone.  Lucien  had  already 
entered  upon  his  apprenticeship  in  the  petty  mean- 
nesses by  which  a  married  woman's  lover  purchases 
his  good  fortune,  and  which  afford  the  woman  a 
means  of  measuring  what  she  can  exact;  but  he  had 
never  yet  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton. 

That  gentleman  was  one  of  those  shallow-brained 
creatures  who  occupy  a  middle  position  between 
the  inoffensive  nullity  which  still  has  a  glimmer  of 
understanding,  and  the  haughty  stupidity  which 
will  neither  give  nor  accept  anything.  Deeply 
impressed  with  his  duties  toward  society  and  over- 
anxious to  make  himself  agreeable,  he  had  adopted 
the  stereotyped  smile  of  the  ballet-dancer  as  his 
only  language.  Whether  he  was  pleased  or  dis- 
pleased, he  smiled.  He  smiled  at  the  receipt  of 
disastrous  news  as  well  as  when  informed  of  some 
fortunate  occurrence.  His  smile  answered  all  pur- 
poses by  virtue  of  the  different  expressions  he  gave 
it.  If  direct  approbation  were  absolutely  necessary, 
he  reinforced  his  smile  by  a  condescending  laugh, 

(115) 


Il6  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

never  uttering  a  word  except  in  the  last  extremity. 
A  tete-a-t£te  caused  him  the  only  embarrassment 
that  disturbed  his  vegetative  life;  he  was  then 
obliged  to  look  for  something  in  the  vast  void 
within.  Generally  he  avoided  the  difficulty  by  re- 
curring to  the  artless  customs  of  his  childhood;  he 
thought  aloud,  he  initiated  you  into  the  most  trivial 
details  of  his  life;  he  told  you  of  his  needs,  his 
petty  sensations,  which,  to  him,  resembled  ideas. 
He  never  talked  about  the  rain  or  the  fine  weather; 
he  did  not  resort  to  the  commonplaces  of  conversa- 
tion by  which  fools  escape;  he  addressed  his  re- 
marks to  the  most  secret  concerns  of  life. 

"To  oblige  Madame  de  Bargeton,  who  is  very 
fond  of  veal,  I  ate  some  this  morning,"  he  would 
say,  "and  my  stomach  is  troubling  me  terribly. 
I  knew  it  would,  it  always  does;  explain  it  to  me!" 

Or  else: 

"1  am  going  to  ring  for  a  glass  of  eau  sucr'ee ; 
will  you  have  one  at  the  same  time?" 

Or  else: 

"To-morrow  I  am  going  to  ride  out  and  see  my 
father-in-law." 

These  brief  sentences,  which  called  for  no  discus- 
sion, simply  extracted  a  yes  or  a  no  from  his  inter- 
locutor, and  then  the  conversation  would  fall  flat. 
Thereupon  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  would  beg  his 
visitor's  assistance  by  elevating  his  asthmatic  pug 
dog  nose  toward  the  west  and  looking  at  him  with 
his  great  colorless  eyes  as  if  to  ask:  You  were 
saying?      He   doted    upon   the   tiresome    creatures 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  117 

who  were  always  eager  to  talk  of  themselves ;  he 
listened  to  them  with  unfeigned,  courteous  attention 
which  made  him  so  dear  to  their  hearts,  that  the 
chattering  fools  of  Angouleme  gave  him  credit  for 
a  sly  sort  of  intelligence  and  claimed  that  he  was 
misjudged.  So,  when  nobody  else  would  listen  to 
them,  these  people  would  come  and  pour  the  con- 
clusion of  their  stories  or  their  arguments  into  Mon- 
sieur de  Bargeton's  ears,  sure  of  finding  his 
approving  smile  at  their  service. 

As  his  wife's  salon  was  always  full,  he  was  gen- 
erally at  ease  there.  He  busied  himself  with  the 
most  trivial  details;  he  watched  for  newcomers, 
saluted  them  with  a  smile  and  escorted  them  to  his 
wife;  he  watched  those  who  left  and  escorted  them 
to  the  door,  receiving  their  adieus  with  his  ever- 
lasting smile.  When  the  party  was  an  animated 
one,  and  he  saw  that  everyone  was  busily  employed 
for  the  moment,  the  fortunate  mute  would  plant 
himself  on  his  two  long  legs  like  a  stork,  as  if  he 
were  listening  to  a  political  conversation;  or  he 
would  go  and  scrutinize  the  hand  of  some  card- 
player,  understanding  nothing  of  what  he  saw,  for 
he  knew  no  game;  or  he  would  walk  about,  taking 
snuff  and  patting  his  stomach.  Anaiis  was  the 
beautiful  side  of  his  life;  she  afforded  him  infinite 
pleasure.  When  she  was  playing  her  part  as  mis- 
tress of  the  house,  he  would  stretch  himself  out 
upon  a  couch  and  gaze  admiringly  at  her;  for  she 
talked  for  him;  again,  he  took  delight  in  trying  to 
fathom  the  meaning  of  her   remarks;   and,  as  he 


Il8  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

frequently  did  not  understand  them  until  long  after 
they  were  made,  he  indulged  in  smiles  that  went 
off  like  buried  shells,  suddenly  exploded.     His  re- 
spect for  her  amounted  to  adoration.     An  adoration  of 
some  sort  is  sufficient  to  make  one's  life  happy,  is 
it  not  ?     Like  the  clever  and  generous  creature  she 
was,  Ana'is  did  not  abuse  her  opportunities  when 
she  discovered  that  her  husband  possessed  the  facile 
nature  of  a  child,  who  asks  no  better  fate  than  to 
be  governed.     She  had  taken  care  of  him  as  one 
takes  care  of  a  cloak;  she  kept  him  clean,  brushed 
him,  put  him  away,  used  him  carefully;  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Bargeton,  feeling  that  he  was  brushed  and 
tended  and  used  with  care,  contracted  a  dog-like 
affection  for  his  wife.     It  is  so  easy  to  bestow  hap- 
piness that  costs  nothing!     Madame  de  Bargeton, 
unaware  that  her  husband  cared  for  anything  in  the 
world  except  good  cheer,  gave  him  excellent  din- 
ners; she  took  pity  upon   him;    she    never   com- 
plained; and  some  people,   not  understanding  that 
pride  kept  her  silent,  attributed  invisible  virtues 
to  her  husband.     She  had,  moreover,  subjected  him 
to  a  sort  of  military  discipline  and  he  obeyed  his 
wife's  desires  passively  in  everything.     She  would 
say  to  him:   "Call  upon  Monsieur  This  or  Madame 
That,"  and  he  would  go  as  a  soldier  goes  to  take 
his  turn  at  sentry  duty.     In  her  presence  he  as- 
sumed  the   attitude    of   a   soldier   carrying   arms, 
motionless. 

At  this  time  there  was  some  talk  of  electing  this 
dumb  man  to  the  office  of  deputy.     Lucien  had  not 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  119 

been  a  favored  guest  at  the  house  for  a  sufficiently 
long  time  to  have  lifted  the  veil  behind  which  that 
enigmatical  character  kept  itself  hidden.  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton,  buried  in  his  lounging  chair,  seeming 
to  see  and  to  understand  everything,  imparting  to 
his  silence  an  attribute  of  dignity,  was  to  him  a 
prodigiously  imposing  figure.  Instead  of  taking 
him  for  a  granite  post,  Lucien  looked  upon  him  as  a 
redoubtable  sphinx,  by  virtue  of  the  natural  impulse 
of  imaginative  men  to  magnify  everything  and  to 
endow  with  a  soul  everything  that  has  shape;  and 
he  deemed  it  advisable  to  flatter  him. 

"1  am  the  first  to  arrive,"  he  said,  saluting  him 
with  a  little  more  respect  than  was  commonly  ac- 
corded the  goodman. 

"That  is  very  natural,"  Monsieur  de  Bargeton 
replied. 

Lucien  took  that  remark  for  the  epigrammatic 
retort  of  a  jealous  husband;  he  blushed  and  looked 
at  himself  in  the  mirror,  trying  to  maintain  his 
self-possession. 

"You  live  at  L'Houmeau,"  added  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton;  "people  who  live  at  a  distance  always 
arrive  earlier  than  those  who  live  near." 

"Why  is  that?"  said  Lucien,  assuming  a  concil- 
iatory air. 

"1  don't  know,"  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  replied, 
relapsing  into  immobility. 

"You  have  not  tried  to  find  out,"  continued  Lu- 
cien. "A  man  capable  of  noticing  the  fact  can  dis- 
cover its  cause." 


120  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  de  Bargeton,  "final  causes! 
Ha!  ha!" 

Lucien  cudgeled  his  brains  for  material  with 
which  to  rekindle  the  conversation  which  expired 
at  that  point. 

"Madame  de  Bargeton  is  dressing,  I  presume?" 
he  said,  shuddering  at  the  absurdity  of  the  question. 

"Yes,  she  is  dressing,"  replied  the  husband 
simply. 

Lucien  looked  up  at  the  two  exposed  rafters, 
painted  gray,  with  plastered  spaces  between,  but 
could  think  of  nothing  further  to  say;  he  noticed, 
however,  with  dismay,  that  the  little  chandelier 
with  old  crystal  pendants  had  been  stripped  of  its 
gauze  covering  and  supplied  with  candles.  The 
covers  of  the  furniture  had  been  removed  and  the 
red  damask  displayed  its  faded  flowers.  These 
preparations  indicated  an  extraordinary  occasion. 
The  poet  was  disturbed  by  doubts  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  his  costume,  for  he  was  in  boots.  He 
went  and  gazed  in  a  stupor  of  apprehension  at  a 
Japanese  vase  that  stood  upon  a  garlanded  console 
of  the  time  of  Louis  XV. ;  then  he  feared  that  he 
might  displease  the  husband  by  not  paying  court 
to  him,  and  he  determined  to  try  and  discover 
whether  the  goodman  had  a  hobby  that  he  could 
flatter. 

"You  rarely  leave  the  town,  monsieur?"  he  said, 
walking  back  toward  Monsieur  de  Bargeton. 

"Rarely." 

Silence  again.      Monsieur  de  Bargeton  watched, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  121 

like  a  suspicious  cat,  the  slightest  movements  of 
Lucien,  who  disturbed  his  repose.  Each  of  them 
was  afraid  of  the  other. 

"Can  he  have  become  suspicious  of  my  constant 
attentions?"  thought  Lucien,  "for  he  seems  to  be 
very  hostile  to  me!" 

Luckily  for  Lucien,  who  was  sorely  embarrassed 
by  the  uneasy  glances  with  which  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton  eyed  him  as  he  went  back  and  forth,  the 
old  manservant,  who  had  donned  livery  for  the  oc- 
casion, announced  Du  Chatelet.  The  baron  entered 
the  room  with  perfect  ease  of  manner,  saluted  his 
friend  Bargeton,  and  bestowed  upon  Lucien  a  slight 
inclination  of  the  head  which  was  much  in  vogue 
in  those  days,  but  which  seemed  to  Lucien  brim- 
ming over  with  purse-proud  impertinence.  Sixte 
du  Chatelet  wore  trousers  of  dazzling  whiteness, 
with  inside  straps  that  kept  them  in  place.  He  had 
dainty  shoes  and  Scotch  thread  stockings.  Over  his 
white  waistcoat  floated  the  black  ribbon  of  his  eye- 
glass. His  black  coat  was  noticeable  for  its  Paris- 
ian cut  and  shape.  He  was  in  very  truth  the 
doughty  beau  that  his  past  life  pronounced  him  to 
be;  but  age  had  already  endowed  him  with  a  little 
round  paunch  not  easily  confined  within  elegant 
limits.  His  hair  and  whiskers,  which  were 
whitened  by  the  trials  he  had  undergone  on  his 
travels,  were  dyed,  giving  his  features  a  harsh 
expression.  His  complexion,  formerly  very  deli- 
cate, had  taken  on  the  coppery  tinge  common  to 
those  who  return  from  the  Indies;  but  his  general 


122  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

bearing,  although  rendered  ridiculous  by  the  preten- 
sions to  which  he  still  clung,  revealed  none  the  less 
the  attractive  secretary  of  despatches  of  an  imperial 
princess.  He  took  his  monocle,  gazed  at  Lucien's 
nankeen  trousers,  his  boots,  his  waistcoat  and  his 
blue  coat  of  Angouleme  manufacture — eyed  his 
rival  from  head  to  foot  in  fact;  then  coolly  replaced 
his  monocle  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  as  if  he  had 
said:     "I  am  content" 

Overwhelmed  by  the  elegance  of  the  financier, 
Lucien  thought  that  he  would  have  his  revenge 
when  he  should  show  his  face,  illumined  by  the  fire 
of  poesy,  to  the  assembled  guests;  but  he  felt 
none  the  less  a  sharp  pang,  which  renewed  the  in- 
ternal distress  that  Monsieur  de  Bargeton's  supposed 
hostility  had  already  caused  him.  The  baron 
seemed  to  bear  down  upon  Lucien  with  the  full 
weight  of  his  fortune  in  order  to  humble  him  the 
more.  Monsieur  de  Bargeton,  who  expected  that 
he  would  have  no  further  occasion  to  speak,  was 
alarmed  by  the  silence  of  the  two  rivals  as  they 
looked  each  other  over ;  but  there  was  one  question 
which  he  held  in  reserve, — as  one  keeps  a  pear  for  a 
possible  thirst, — for  use  when  he  had  exhausted  his 
resources,  and  he  deemed  it  necessary  to  dis- 
charge it. 

"Well,  monsieur,  what  is  there  new?"  he  said 
to  Chatelet,  with  a  business-like  air.  "Do  you 
hear  anything?" 

"Why,  Monsieur  Chardon  is  the  novelty,"  re- 
plied the  superintendent    of  imposts    maliciously. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  123 

"Apply  to  him.  Have  you  brought  us  some  pretty 
little  poem,"  queried  the  sprightly  baron,  rearrang- 
ing the  upper  curl  on  one  side  of  his  head,  which 
he  fancied  was  out  of  place. 

"I  must  consult  you  to  find  out  whether  I  have 
succeeded,"  said  Lucien.  "You  tried  your  hand 
at  poetry  before  I  did." 

"Bah!  a  lively  vaudeville  or  two  written  as  a 
favor,  occasional  ballads,  romanzas  that  owe  their 
success  to  the  music,  my  great  epistle  to  a  sister  of 
Bonaparte — the  ingrate! — give  me  no  claim  to  the 
admiration  of  posterity!" 

At  that  moment  Madame  de  Bargeton  made  her 
appearance  in  all  the  splendor  of  a  carefully  studied 
toilet.  She  wore  a  Jewish  turban  embellished 
with  an  oriental  clasp.  A  gauze  scarf,  beneath 
which  glistened  the  cameos  of  a  necklace,  was 
gracefully  twined  about  her  neck.  Her  dress  of 
colored  muslin,  with  short  sleeves,  allowed  her  to 
show  several  rows  of  bracelets  on  her  lovely  white 
arms.  This  theatrical  garb  fascinated  Lucien. 
Monsieur  du  Chatelet  gallantly  lavished  nauseating 
compliments  upon  the  queen,  which  made  her  smile 
with  pleasure,  she  was  so  happy  to  be  praised  be- 
fore Lucien.  She  exchanged  but  one  glance  with 
her  dear  poet,  and  answered  the  superintendent  of 
imposts  with  a  formal  courtesy  that  mortified  him 
because  it  expressly  excluded  him  from  any  claim 
to  intimacy. 

Meanwhile,  the  invited  guests  were  beginning 
to  arrive.     In  the  first  place,  came  the  bishop  and 


124  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

his  grand-vicar,  two  dignified  and  solemn  figures, 
but  in  striking  contrast  to  each  other.  Monseigneur 
was  tall  and  thin;  his  acolyte  was  short  and  stout. 
Both  had  bright  eyes,  but  the  bishop  was  pale, 
while  his  vicar's  face  wore  the  purple  flush  of  most 
robust  health.  Both  were  sparing  of  their  gestures 
and  were  rarely  moved  to  animation.  Both  seemed 
sagacious;  their  reserve  and  their  silence  awed  the 
beholder,  and  they  were  supposed  to  have  great 
minds. 

The  two  priests  were  followed  by  Madame  de 
Chandour  and  her  husband,  extraordinary  individ- 
uals, whom  those  people  who  know  nothing  of  the 
provinces,  would  be  tempted  to  believe  a  creation 
of  the  fancy.  Monsieur  de  Chandour,  whose  bap- 
tismal name  was  Stanislas,  the  husband  of  Amelie, 
the  woman  who  posed  as  Madame  de  Bargeton's 
rival,  was  a  ci-devant  young  man,  still  slender  at 
forty-five,  with  a  face  that  resembled  a  sieve.  His 
cravat  was  always  tied  in  such  a  way  as  to  present 
two  threatening  points,  one  at  the  level  of  the  right 
ear,  the  other  depressed  toward  the  red  ribbon 
attached  to  his  Cross.  The  skirts  of  his  coat  were 
sharply  cut  away.  His  low-cut  waistcoat  disclosed 
a  wealth  of  swelling,  starched  shirt  front,  secured 
by  pins  overburdened  with  precious  stones.  In 
short,  all  his  clothing  was  characterized  by  a  sort  of 
exaggeration  that  gave  him  so  marked  a  resemblance 
to  caricatures,  that  strangers  who  met  him  could 
not  repress  a  smile. 

Stanislas   constantly    looked   himself   over   from 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  125 

head  to  foot,  with  a  sort  of  smug  satisfaction,  veri- 
fying the  number  of  buttons  on  his  waistcoat,  fol- 
lowing the  wavy  lines  of  his  close-fitting  trousers, 
and  caressing  his  legs  with  a  glance  that  paused  at 
the  toes  of  his  boots  and  rested  lovingly  upon  them. 
When  he  ceased  to  examine  himself  thus,  his  eyes 
would  seek  a  mirror  and  he  would  look  to  see  if  his 
hair  kept  its  curl ;  he  questioned  the  ladies  with  a 
jovial  eye,  putting  one  of  his  fingers  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  throwing  back  his  shoulders  and  posing 
three-fourths  profile, — chanticleer-like  antics  that 
stood  him  in  good  stead  in  the  aristocratic  society 
of  which  he  was  the  beau.  Most  of  the  time  his 
conversation  consisted  of  broad  remarks  such  as 
were  in  vogue  in  the  eighteenth  century.  That 
detestable  style  of  conversation  procured  him  some 
favor  among  women,  for  he  made  them  laugh.  Mon- 
sieur Chatelet  was  beginning  to  cause  him  some 
uneasiness.  In  fact,  the  ladies,  perplexed  by  the 
disdain  of  the  dandy  of  the  impost  office,  spurred 
on  by  his  affectation  in  pretending  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  lift  him  out  of  the  slough  into  which  he 
had  fallen,  and  piqued  by  his  manner,  as  of  a  blase 
sultan,  the  ladies,  we  say,  sought  his  society  more 
eagerly  than  when  he  first  arrived,  after  Madame 
de  Bargeton  fell  in  love  with  the  Byron  of  An- 
gouleme. 

Amelie  was  a  woman  of  small  stature,  awkwardly 
affected,  plump  and  fair,  with  black  hair,  carrying 
everything  to  excess,  always  talking  in  a  loud  tone,    \ 
strutting  about  with  her  head  laden  with  feathers 


126  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

in  summer  and  with  flowers  in  winter;  a  fluent 
talker,  but  never  able  to  finish  her  sentence  with- 
out the  accompaniment  of  the  hoarse  breathing  of 
unacknowledged  asthma. 

Monsieur  de  Saintot,  Astolphe  by  baptism,  presi- 
dent of  the  Society  of  Agriculture,  a  tall,  heavy 
man,  with  a  high  color,  appeared  in  tow  of  his  wife, 
in  figure  resembling  a  dried  fern  and  familiarly 
called  Lili,  an  abbreviation  of  Elisa.  This  pet 
name,  which  implied  something  infantile  in  the 
person  on  whom  it  was  bestowed,  was  at  odds  with 
the  character  and  manners  of  Madame  de  Saintot,  a 
solemn,  extremely  pious  woman,  and  an  ill-natured, 
fault-finding  card-player.  Astolphe  was  supposed  to 
be  a  scientist  of  the  first  order.  Although  as 
ignorant  as  a  carp,  he  had  nevertheless  written  the 
articles  on  Sugar  and  Eau-de-vie  in  a  dictionary  of 
agriculture,  two  productions  plagiarized  outright 
from  newspaper  articles  and  ancient  works  in  which 
those  two  products  were  treated.  The  whole  de- 
partment believed  him  to  be  busily  employed  on  a 
treatise  upon  modern  methods  of  cultivation. 
Although  he  regularly  shut  himself  up  all  the  morn- 
ing in  his  study,  he  had  not  written  two  pages  in 
twelve  years.  If  anyone  came  to  see  him,  he  would 
be  taken  by  surprise  fumbling  among  his  papers, 
looking  for  a  note  he  had  lost,  or  cutting  his  quill; 
but  he  employed  all  the  time  he  remained  in  his 
study  in  profitless  pursuits :  he  would  read  the  news- 
paper at  great  length,  carve  corks  with  his  pen- 
knife, draw  fanciful  designs  on  his  blotter,  turn  the 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  127 

leaves  of  a  volume  of  Cicero,  to  catch  on  the  wing  a 
phrase  or  a  passage,  whose  meaning  might  be  ap- 
plied to  current  events;  then,  in  the  evening,  he 
would  exert  himself  to  lead  the  conversation  around 
to  some  subject  which  would  enable  him  to  say: 
"There's  a  passage  in  Cicero  that  seems  to  have 
been  written  to  fit  what  is  happening  nowadays." 
With  that  he  would  repeat  the  passage,  to  the  vast 
amazement  of  his  auditors,  who  would  say  to  one 
another:  "Really,  Astolphe  is  a  perfect  wellspring 
of  knowledge."  The  interesting  incident  would 
be  told  all  over  the  town  and  would  confirm  the 
prevalent  flattering  opinion  of  Monsieur  de  Saintot. 
After  this  couple,  came  Monsieur  de  Bartas, 
Adrien  by  name,  the  man  who  sang  baritone  airs 
and  had  enormous  pretensions  in  music.  Self- 
esteem  had  seated  him  astride  the  solfeggio;  he 
had  begun  by  admiring  his  own  singing,  from  that 
he  had  passed  to  talking  about  music  and  had  ended 
by  devoting  himself  exclusively  to  it.  The  musical 
art  had  become  a  sort  of  monomania  with  him ;  he 
never  showed  any  animation  except  when  talking  of 
music,  and  he  suffered  agony  at  an  evening  party 
until  he  was  asked  to  sing.  Once  he  had  bellowed 
one  of  his  airs,  life  began  for  him;  he  posed,  he 
stood  on  his  heels  when  receiving  compliments,  he 
played  the  modest  man;  but  he  went,  nevertheless, 
from  group  to  group  culling  words  of  praise;  and 
when  everything  was  said  he  would  return  to  the 
piano,  and  start  a  discussion  about  the  difficulties 
of  his  song,  or  vaunt  the  talent  of  the  composer. 


128  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

Monsieur  Alexandre  de  Brebian,  the  hero  of  the 
crayon,  the  artist  who  flooded  his  friends'  rooms 
with  absurd  productions  and  spoiled  all  the  albums 
in  the  department,  accompanied  Monsieur  de  Bartas. 
Each  of  them  had  the  other's  wife  upon  his  arm. 
If  the  chronique  scandaleuse  were  to  be  believed, 
the  exchange  was  complete.  The  two  ladies, 
Lolotte — Madame  Charlotte  de  Brebian — and  Fifine 
— Madame  Josephine  de  Bartas, — equally  absorbed 
in  fichus,lace  trimmings  and  arranging  combinations 
of  heterogeneous  colors,  were  consumed  by  the  de- 
sire to  appear  like  Parisians,  and  neglected  their 
households,  where  everything  went  wrong.  While 
the  two  women,  squeezed  like  dolls  in  dresses  cut 
with  great  regard  to  economy  of  material,  presented 
upon  their  persons  an  exhibition  of  outrageously 
eccentric  coloring,  the  husbands,  in  their  quality 
of  artists,  allowed  themselves  a  truly  provincial 
negligence  in  the  matter  of  costume,  which  made 
them  curious  spectacles.  Their  threadbare  clothes 
made  them  look  like  the  supernumeraries  who  rep- 
resent the  aristocratic  wedding  guests  at  small 
theatres. 

Among  the  figures  that  cast  anchor  in  the  salon, 
one  of  the  most  original  was  that  of  Monsieur  le 
Comte  de  Senonches,  who  bore  the  aristocratic 
name  of  Jacques;  a  great  hunter,  haughty, reserved, 
with  sunburned  face,  amiable  as  a  wild  boar,  sus- 
picious as  a  Venetian,  jealous  as  a  Moor,  and  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  Monsieur  du  Hautoy,  otherwise 
called  Francis,  the  friend  of  the  family. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  129 

Madame  de  Senonches — Zephirine — was  tall  and 
beautiful,  but  with  some  pimples  on  her  face  due 
to  an  affection  of  the  liver,  which  gave  her  the  rep- 
utation of  an  exacting  wife.  Her  slender  figure, 
her  delicate  proportions,justified  a  languorous  man- 
ner which  savored  of  affectation,  but  which  indi- 
cated the  unfailing  gratification  of  the  passion  and 
caprices  of  a  dearly  loved  woman. 

Francis  was  a  man  of  considerable  distinction, 
who  had  abandoned  the  consulate  at  Valentia  and 
his  hopes  in  diplomacy  to  come  to  Angouleme  and 
live  near  Zephirine,  also  called  Zizine.  The  former 
consul  looked  after  the  housekeeping,  attended  to 
the  education  of  the  children,  taught  them  foreign 
languages  and  managed  the  property  of  Monsieur 
and  Madame  de  Senonches  with  whole-souled  de- 
votion. Noble  Angouleme,  official  Angouleme,  bour- 
geois Angouleme,  had  long  commented  on  the  per- 
fect unity  that  prevailed  in  this  household  of  three 
persons;  but  the  mystery  of  conjugal  trinity  seemed 
so  rare  and  so  attractive  that  Monsieur  du  Hautoy 
would  have  seemed  prodigiously  immoral  if  he  had 
showed  any  symptoms  of  marrying.  Moreover, 
people  were  beginning  to  suspect  the  existence 
of  disquieting  mysteries  in  the  excessive  attach- 
ment of  Madame  de  Senonches  for  a  goddaughter, 
one  Mademoiselle  delaHaye,  who  acted  as  her  com- 
panion; and  notwithstanding  some  apparent  impos- 
sibilities connected  with  dates,  a  striking  resem- 
blance was  detected  between  Francoise  de  la  Haye 
and  Francis  du  Hautoy.  When  Jacques  was  hunting 
9 


130  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

in  the  neighborhood,  everyone  would  ask  him 
about  Francis,  and  he  would  describe  the  trifling 
indispositions  of  his  self-willed  intendant,  giving 
him  precedence  over  his  wife.  This  blindness 
seemed  so  strange  in  a  jealous  man  that  his  best 
friends  amused  themselves  by  bringing  it  out,  and 
described  it  to  those  who  did  not  know  the  mystery, 
in  order  to  entertain  them. 

Monsieur  du  Hautoy  was  a  precious  dandy,  whose 
solicitude  in  small  matters  had  developed  into  fin- 
icalness  and  childishness.  He  worried  about  his 
cough,  his  sleep,  his  digestion  and  his  diet.  Ze- 
phirine  had  led  her  factotum  to  play  the  man  with 
delicate  health:  she  wadded  his  clothes  and  muffled 
him  up  and  dosed  him;  she  tempted  him  with  choice 
dishes  like  a  marchioness's  poodle;  she  ordered  or 
forbade  him  to  eat  this  or  that  article  of  food ;  she 
embroidered  waistcoats  for  him  and  cravat  ends  and 
handkerchiefs;  she  had  accustomed  him  finally  to 
wearing  such  pretty  things,  that  she  metamorphosed 
him  into  a  sort  of  Japanese  idol.  Their  under- 
standing was  perfect;  Zizine  looked  at  Francis  on 
every  occasion,  and  Francis  seemed  to  take  his  ideas 
from  Zizine's  eyes.  They  blamed  and  praised  to- 
gether and  seemed  to  consult  before  uttering  the 
simplest  form  of  greeting. 

The  wealthiest  landowner  in  the  neighborhood, 
the  man  who  was  envied  above  all  others,  Monsieur 
le  Marquis  de  Pimentel,  and  his  wife,  who  had 
forty  thousand  francs  a  year  between  them,  and 
who  passed  their  winters  in  Paris,  came  from  the 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  1 31 

country  in  a  caleche  with  their  neighbors  Monsieur 
Ie  Baron  and  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Rastignac,  ac- 
companied by  the  baroness's  aunt  and  by  their 
daughters,  two  charming  young  ladies,  well-bred, 
poor,  but  dressed  with  that  simplicity  which  does 
so  much  to  set  off  natural  beauty.  This  party, 
which  certainly  composed  the  elite  of  the  company, 
were  received  with  a  cold  silence  and  respect  full 
of  jealousy,  especially  when  everyone  noticed  the 
marked  distinction  with  which  Madame  de  Bargeton 
received  them.  These  two  families  were  of  the 
small  number  of  people  who,  in  the  provinces,  hold 
themselves  above  idle  gossip,  take  part  with  no 
clique,  live  quietly  in  retirement  and  maintain  an 
imposing  dignity.  Monsieur  de  Pimentel  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Rastignac  were  called  by  their  titles;  there 
was  no  familiarity  between  their  wives  or  their 
daughters  and  the  select  society  of  Angouleme; 
they  were  too  closely  connected  with  the  court 
nobility  to  compromise  themselves  with  the  absurd- 
ities of  the  province. 

The  prefect  and  the  general  were  the  last  to  ar- 
rive, accompanied  by  the  country  gentleman  who 
had  brought  his  memoir  on  silkworms  to  David 
that  afternoon.  Doubtless,  he  was  some  mayor  of 
a  canton  whose  acquaintance  was  worth  cultivating 
because  of  his  fine  estates;  but  his  manner  and  his 
costume  betrayed  absolute  unfamiliarity  with  so- 
ciety; he  was  uncomfortable  in  his  clothes,  he  did 
not  know  where  to  put  his  hands,  he  walked  around 
the  person  with  whom  he  was  talking,  he  rose  and 


132  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

sat  down  again  before  replying  when  he  was  spoken 
to,  he  seemed  ready  to  do  any  menial  service;  he 
was  by  turns  obsequious,  uneasy,  solemn ;  he  made 
haste  to  laugh  at  a  jest,  he  listened  in  a  servile 
fashion,  and  sometimes  he  assumed  a  cunning  leer 
when  he  thought  that  someone  was  making  sport  of 
him.  Several  times  during  the  evening,  as  his 
memoir  lay  heavy  on  his  mind,  he  tried  to  talk 
about  silkworms;  but  the  ill-fated  Monsieur  de 
Severac  fell  upon  Monsieur  de  Bartas,  who  replied 
with  a  few  remarks  concerning  Music,  and  upon 
Monsieur  de  Saintot,  who  quoted  Cicero  to  him. 
Toward  the  middle  of  the  evening,  the  poor  mayor 
succeeded  in  coming  to  an  understanding  with  a 
widow  and  her  daughter,  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
du  Brossard,  who  were  not  the  least  interesting 
figures  in  the  assemblage.  A  single  word  will  tell 
the  whole  story :  they  were  as  poor  as  they  were 
noble.  Their  dress  displayed  that  striving  after 
elegance  which  betrays  secret  poverty.  Madame 
du  Brossard,  very  unskilfully  and  on  every  possible 
occasion,  vaunted  the  charms  of  her  tall,  stout 
daughter,  about  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  who 
was  supposed  to  be  a  fine  performer  on  the  piano; 
she  took  care  that  her  daughter  should  share  the 
likes  and  dislikes  of  all  the  marriageable  men,  and 
in  her  desire  to  see  her  dear  Camille  settled  in 
life,  she  had,  in  the  course  of  the  same  evening, 
declared  that  Camille  loved  the  wandering  life  of 
the  garrison,  and  the  tranquil  life  of  landowners 
who   cultivate  their   own   estates.     Both   had  the 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  133 

prim,  bitter-sweet  dignity  of  persons  whom  every- 
one is  delighted  to  pity,  in  whom  people  are  inter- 
ested through  selfishness,  and  who  have  sounded  the 
empty  depths  of  the  consolatory  phrases  with  which 
society  takes  pleasure  in  greeting  the  unfortunate. 
Monsieur  de  Severac  was  fifty-nine  years  of  age 
and  a  childless  widower;  therefore  the  mother  and 
daughter  listened  with  devout  admiration  to  the 
details  he  gave  them  of  his  silkworm  nurseries. 

"My  daughter  has  always  loved  animals,"  said 
the  mother.  "And  as  the  silk  the  little  creatures 
make  interests  us  women,  I  will  ask  your  permis- 
sion to  go  to  Severac  and  show  my  Camille  how  it 
is  gathered.  Camille  is  so  intelligent,  that  she 
will  grasp  at  once  everything  you  tell  her.  Why, 
one  day  she  understood  the  inverse  ratio  of  the 
square  of  distances!" 

This  phrase  brought  the  conversation  between 
Monsieur  de  Severac  and  Madame  du  Brossard  to  a 
glorious  termination,  after  Lucien's  reading. 

Some  habitues  of  the  salon  glided  freely  about 
among  the  guests,  and  there  were  two  or  three 
young  men  of  good  family,  timid  and  silent,  ar- 
ranged like  shrines,  happy  to  have  been  invited  to 
this  solemn  literary  function,  the  boldest  of  whom 
emancipated  himself  so  far  as  to  talk  a  good  deal 
with  Mademoiselle  de  la  Haye.  All  the  women 
seated  themselves  in  a  circle,  with  serious  faces, 
and  the  men  stood  behind  them.  This  assemblage 
of  strange  personages,  with  eccentric  costumes  and 
made-up  faces,  became  most  imposing  to  Lucien, 


134  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

whose  heart  beat  fast  when  he  found  all  eyes  fixed 
upon  him.  Bold  as  he  was,  he  found  it  difficult  to 
undergo  that  first  test,  despite  the  encouragement 
of  his  mistress,  who  bestowed  her  most  ceremo- 
nious reverences  and  her  most  charming  courtesies 
upon  the  illustrious  luminaries  of  Angoumois.  The 
distress  that  he  felt  was  exaggerated  by  a  cir- 
cumstance readily  foreseen,  but  well  calculated  to 
dismay  a  young  man  as  yet  unfamiliar  with  social 
tactics. 

Lucien,  all  eyes  and  all  ears,  heard  himself  ad- 
dressed as  Monsieur  de  Rubempre  by  Louise,  by 
Monsieur  de  Bargeton,  by  the  bishop  and  by  some 
few  sycophants  of  the  mistress  of  the  house;  and  as 
Monsieur  Chardon  by  the  majority  of  that  dreaded 
audience.  Abashed  by  the  questioning  glances  of 
the  curious,  he  knew  when  his  plebeian  name  was 
coming,  from  the  mere  movement  of  the  lips;  he 
divined  the  anticipatory  judgments  that  were  passed 
upon  him  with  the  provincial  outspokenness  that  is 
often  a  little  too  near  discourtesy.  These  constant, 
unexpected  pin-pricks  put  him  on  still  worse  terms 
with  himself.  He  awaited  impatiently  the  moment 
for  beginning  his  reading,  in  order  to  assume  an 
attitude  that  would  put  an  end  to  his  internal  agony ; 
but  Jacques  was  describing  his  last  hunt  to  Madame 
de  Pimentel;  Adrien  was  discussing  the  new  musi- 
cal star,  Rossini,  with  Mademoiselle  Laure  de  Ras- 
tignac;  Astolphe,  who  had  learned  by  heart  a 
newspaper  description  of  a  new  plough,  was  telling 
the   baron   about   it.     Lucien  did  not  know,  poor 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  135 

poet,  that  not  one  of  those  great  minds,  save  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton's,  could  understand  poetry.  All 
those  people,  being  absolutely  without  emotions, 
had  hurried  to  the  house  entirely  astray  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  spectacle  that  awaited  them.  There 
are  words  which,  like  the  bugle,  the  cymbals,  the 
great  drum  of  the  puppet-show,  always  attract  the 
crowd.  The  words  beauty,  glory,  poetry,  have  a 
magic  that  fascinates  the  most  commonplace  minds. 


When  everybody  had  arrived,  when  the  conver- 
sation had  ceased,  not  without  numberless  warnings 
given  to  the  interrupters  by  Monsieur  de  Bargeton, 
whom  his  wife  sent  about  like  a  church  beadle  who 
taps  his  staff  on  the  flags,  Lucien  took  his  place  at 
the  round  table  near  Madame  de  Bargeton,  conscious 
of  a  terrible  sinking  of  the  heart.  He  announced  in 
a  wavering  voice  that,  in  order  not  to  disappoint 
any  person's  expectations,  he  proposed  to  read  some 
recently  discovered  masterpieces  of  a  great  but 
little  known  poet  Although  Andre  de  Chenier's 
poems  were  published  in  1819,  no  one  at  Angoule'me 
had  as  yet  heard  of  Andre  de  Chenier.  Everyone 
chose  to  discover  in  this  announcement  a  pretext 
invented  by  Madame  de  Bargeton  to  spare  the  poet's 
self-esteem  and  put  the  audience  at  their  ease. 

Lucien  first  read  Ix  Jenne  Malade,  which  was 
received  with  flattering  murmurs;  then  L'Aveugle, 
a  poem  which  ordinary  minds  consider  too  long. 
While  he  was  reading,  Lucien  was  a  prey  to  such 
infernal  agony  as  none  but  eminent  artists  can 
realize,  or  those  whom  enthusiasm  and  exalted  in- 
telligence place  upon  the  same  level.  To  be  trans- 
lated by  the  voice,  as  well  as  to  be  understood, 
poetry  demands  religious  attention.  There  must  be 
a  close  alliance  between  the  reader  and  his  auditory, 
failing  which  the  magnetic  communication  does  not 

(137) 


138  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

take  place.     If  such  cohesion  of  minds  is  lacking, 
the  poet  is  like  an  angel  trying  to  sing  a  celestial 
hymn  amid  the  sneering  laughter  of  the  demons  of 
hell.     Now,  in  the  sphere  in  which  their  faculties 
are  developed,  men  of  intellect  possess  the  circum- 
spective eyesight  of  the  snail,  the  scent  of  the  blood- 
hound and  the  ear  of  the  mole ;  they  see,  they  smell, 
they  hear  everything  about  them.     The  musician 
and  the  poet  know  as  quickly  whether  they  are  ad- 
mired  or    not   understood,  as   a   plant   withers   or 
revives  in  a  friendly  or  hostile  atmosphere.     The 
whispers  of  the  men  who  had  come  there  only  to 
please  their  wives,  and  who  were  talking  business 
with  one  another,  echoed  in  Lucien's  ears,  by  vir- 
tue of  this  peculiar  law  of  acoustics;  just  as  he  saw 
the  sympathetic   gulfs   between  various    yawning 
jaws,  whose  teeth  mocked  at  him.     When,  like  the 
dove  of  the  Deluge,  he  looked  about  in  search  of 
some  favorable  corner  upon  which  to  let  his  glance 
rest  a  moment,  he  met  the  impatient  eyes  of  people 
who  were  evidently  thinking  of  taking  advantage 
of  this  assemblage  to  question  one  another  as  to 
some  important  matters.     With  the   exception   of 
Laure  de  Rastignac,  two  or  three  young  men  and 
the    bishop,    everybody    in   the   room    was   bored. 
They  who  understand  poetry  try  to  develop  in  their 
minds  what  the  author  has  placed  in  germ  in  his 
lines;  but  those  icy  auditors,  far  from  breathing  in 
the  poet's  soul,  did  not  even  listen  to  his  words. 
Lucien  was  so  profoundly  disheartened,  therefore, 
that  his  shirt  was  drenched  with  cold  perspiration. 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  139 

A  glance  of  flame  from  Louise,  toward  whom  he 
turned,  gave  him  courage  to  finish;  but  his  poet's 
heart  was  bleeding  from  a  thousand  wounds. 

"Do  you  find  this  very  interesting,  Fifine?"  said 
the  meagre  Lili  to  her  neighbor,  anticipating  per- 
haps more  stage  effect. 

"Don't  ask  me  for  my  opinion,  my  dear;  my 
eyes  close  as  soon  as  I  hear  anybody  begin  to  read. " 

"I  hope  Na'is  won't  often  give  us  poetical  even- 
ings," said  Francis.  "When  I  listen  to  reading 
after  my  dinner,  the  attention  I  have  to  pay  to  it 
disturbs  my  digestion." 

"Poor  dear,"  said  Zephirine  in  a  low  voice, 
"drink  a  glass  of  eau  sucree." 

"It  was  very  well  delivered,"  said  Alexandre; 
"but  I  prefer  whist." 

At  that  remark,  which  was  considered  to  be  clever, 
because  of  the  English  meaning  of  the  word,  some 
enthusiastic  card  players  declared  that  the  reader 
must  need  a  rest.  On  that  pretext,  one  or  two 
couples  escaped  to  the  boudoir.  Lucien,  at  the 
earnest  request  of  Louise,  the  charming  Laure 
de  Rastignac  and  the  bishop,  re-aroused  atten- 
tion, thanks  to  the  counter-revolutionary  energy 
of  the  iambics,  which  several  of  the  guests,  carried 
away  by  the  vigorous  warmth  of  the  declamation, 
applauded  without  understanding  them.  People  of 
that  sort  are  worked  upon  by  vociferation,  just  as 
ordinary  palates  are  inflamed  by  strong  liquors. 
While  ices  were  being  passed  around,  Zephirine 
sent  Francis  to  look  at  the  volume,  and  told  her 


140  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

neighbor  Amelie  that  the  lines  Lucien  had  read  were 
printed. 

"Why,  that's  easily  explained,"  Amelie  replied 
with  visible  satisfaction,  "Monsieur  de  Rubempre 
works  for  a  printer.  It's  as  if  a  pretty  woman 
should  make  her  own  dresses,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  Lolotte. 

"He  has  printed  his  poems  himself,"  said  the 
women. 

"Why  is  he  called  Monsieur  de  Rubempre  then?" 
demanded  Jacques.  "When  a  man  of  noble  blood 
works  with  his  hands,  he  ought  to  change  his 
name." 

"He  has  changed  his  name,  which  was  plebeian, 
for  that  of  his  mother,  who  is  of  noble  birth,"  said 
Zephirine. 

"As  his  verses  are  printed,"  said  Astolphe,  "we 
can  read  them  ourselves." 

This  stupidity  complicated  matters  until  Sixte  du 
Chatelet  deigned  to  explain  to  this  ignorant  assem- 
blage that  the  preliminary  announcement  was  not  a 
mere  oratorical  precaution,  and  that  the  beautiful 
poems  they  had  heard  were  from  the  pen  of  a  roy- 
alist brother  of  the  revolutionist  Marie- Joseph 
Chenier.  The  aristocracy  of  Angouleme,  with  the 
exception  of  the  bishop  and  Madame  de  Rastignac 
and  her  daughters,  who  were  profoundly  impressed 
by  the  noble  lines,  deemed  itself  imposed  upon  and 
took  offence  at  the  fraud.  A  subdued  muttering 
arose;  but  Lucien  did  not  hear  it.  Isolated  from 
that  hateful  assemblage  by  the  intoxication  produced 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  141 

by  inward  melody,  he  strove  to  prolong  it,  and  he 
saw  the  faces  about  him  as  through  a  cloud.  He 
read  the  mournful  elegy  upon  suicide,  the  one  in 
the  archaic  metre,  overflowing  with  sublime  melan- 
choly; then  the  one  in  which  this  line  occurs: 

"  Your  lines  are  sweet,  1  love  to  say  them  o'er." 

And  he  concluded  with  the  smooth-flowing  idyl, 

Neere. 

Plunged  in  a  delicious  reverie,  with  one  hand 
among  her  curls,  which  she  had  involuntarily  un- 
curled, the  other  hanging  at  her  side,  with  dis- 
traught eyes,  alone  in  her  crowded  salon,  Madame 
de  Bargeton  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  felt  that 
she  had  been  transported  to  the  sphere  in  which  she 
belonged.  Imagine  the  disagreeable  shock  she  re- 
ceived when  Amelie,  who  had  undertaken  to  voice 
the  general  opinion,  said  to  her: 

"Na'is,  we  came  here  to  listen  to  Monsieur  Char- 
don's  poetry,  and  you  give  us  printed  poems. 
Although  they  are  very  pretty,  from  patriotism 
these  ladies  would  prefer  the  wine  of  the  province." 

"Don't  you  think  that  the  French  language  is 
ill-suited  to  poetry?"  said  Astolphe  to  the  superin- 
tendent of  imposts.  "I  find  Cicero's  poetry  a  thou- 
sand times  more  poetic." 

"The  true  French  poetry  is  light  poetry,  the 
chanson,"  replied  Chatelet. 

"The  chanson  proves  that  our  language  is  very 
musical,"  said  Adrien. 

"I  would  much  like  to  know  the  verses  that  caused 


142  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

Nais's  fall, "  said  Zephirine ;  "but,  to  judge  from  the 
way  she  receives  Amelie's  suggestion,  she  isn't  in- 
clined to  give  us  a  specimen." 

"She  owes  it  to  herself  to  make  him  repeat  his 
own  verses,"  said  Francis,  "for  the  fellow's  genius 
is  her  justification." 

"You  have  been  in  the  diplomatic  service;  do 
you  obtain  this  treat  for  us,"  said  Amelie  to  Mon- 
sieur du  Chatelet. 

"Nothing  could  be  easier,"  the  baron  replied. 

The  ex-secretary  of  despatches,  accustomed  to 
these  little  manoeuvres,  went  to  the  bishop  and  suc- 
ceeded in  making  him  prefer  the  request.  Being 
urged  by  Monseigneur,  Nais  had  no  choice  but  to 
ask  Lucien  to  repeat  some  piece  that  he  knew  by 
heart.  The  baron's  speedy  success  in  this  negotia- 
tion earned  for  him  a  languorous  smile  from  Amelie. 

"Really  the  baron  is  very  clever,"  she  said  to 
Lolotte. 

Lolotte  remembered  Amelie's  bitter-sweet  remark 
as  to  women  who  made  their  own  dresses. 

"Since  when  have  you  recognized  the  barons  of 
the  Empire?"  she  asked  with  a  smile. 

Lucien  had  essayed  to  deify  his  mistress  in  an 
ode  which  was  addressed  to  her  under  a  title  adopted 
by  all  young  men  on  leaving  college.  That  ode, 
which  he  had  toiled  over  so  lovingly  and  embel- 
lished with  all  the  love  that  filled  his  heart,  seemed 
to  him  the  only  one  of  his  own  works  worthy  to 
contend  with  the  poetry  of  Chenier.  He  glanced 
with  a  more  or  less  conscious  expression  at  Madame 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  143 

de  Bargeton,  as  he  said:  A  ELLE!  Then  he 
proudly  took  his  place  to  recite  his  ambitious  essay, 
for  his  author's  self-esteem  was  quite  at  ease  be- 
hind Madame  de  Bargeton's  skirts.  At  that 
moment,  Nais  betrayed  her  secret  to  the  eyes  of 
her  own  sex.  Notwithstanding  her  habit  of  domi- 
nating these  people  from  the  height  of  her  superior 
intellect,  she  could  not  avoid  an  involuntary  tremor 
for  Lucien.  Her  face  was  troubled,  her  glances 
seemed,  in  a  certain  sense,  to  crave  indulgence; 
finally  she  was  obliged  to  sit  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor  and  to  conceal  her  satisfaction  as  the  fol- 
lowing strophes  fell  upon  her  ear : 

TO  HER. 

Forth  from  the  luminous  depths  of  eternal  glory 
Where  cherubim  attentive,  on  timbrels  of  gold 
In  homage  bent,  repeat  to  God  the  prayerful  story 
Ouf  sorrowing  worlds  unfold, 

Ofttimes  a  cherubin  whose  golden  locks  appear 
Veiling  God's  glory  confusing  that  illumes  her  face, 
Her  argent  wings  abandons  in  the  heavenly  place, 
And  seeks  our  earthly  sphere. 

God's  pitying  glance  all  prompt  has  she  learned  to  divine: 
She  lulls  the  keen  pangs  of  struggling  genius  distressed ; 
Like  maiden  adored,  she  cheers  the  days  of  life's  decline 
With  flowers  in  childhood  blessed. 

Of  contrite  souls  she  notes  the  late  repentant  cry, 
And  whispering  "Hope"  in  dreams,  relieves  the  mother's  load; 
With  heart  joy-abounding  she  carefully  reckons  each  sigh 
On  want  and  grief  bestowed. 


144  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

Still  with  us  of  those  bright  angels  one  remains, 
Whom  earth  all-enamored  stays  in  her  march  ; 
But  weeping,  and  saddened  she  her  gentle  gaze  strains 
To  the  paternal  arch. 

'Tis  not  the  dazzling  whiteness  that  her  brow  o'ershines, 
Has  told  me  all  the  secret  of  her  noble  race, 
Nor  yet  the  burning  glance,  nor  pregnant  fire,  the  signs 
Of  her  celestial  grace. 

But  dazzled,  my  love  that  numberless  glances  assail 
Has  oft  striven  with  her  nature  divine  to  unite 
But  she  has  donned  the  great,  the  dread  archangel's  mail 
Impenetrable,  bright. 

Oh  !  beware,  oh  !  beware  lest  he  see  her  aspire, 
See  the  seraph  all-glorious  mount  heavenward  again  ; 
For  too  soon  would  he  learn  the  enchanting  refrain 
Of  the  eventide  choir. 

Then  piercing  night's  veil  would  you  see  them  appear, 
Like  gleams  of  earliest  morn,  enter  the  starlit  sphere 

In  swift  flight  fraternal ; 
And  the  sailor  on  watch  while  awaiting  a  sign, 
Would  show  the  pathway  of  their  feet,  a  brilliant  line 

Like  a  beacon  eternal. 


"Do  you  understand  that  metaphor?"  said 
Amelie  to  Monsieur  du  Chatelet,  bestowing  a  co- 
quettish smile  upon  him. 

"Oh!  they  are  such  verses  as  all  of  us  write 
more  or  less  when  we  leave  college,"  replied  the 
baron  with  a  bored  expression,  to  carry  out  his 
part  of  a  critic  who  is  surprised  at  nothing. 
"Formerly  we  affected  the  Ossianic  mists.  There 
were  Malvinas  and  Fingals,  cloudlike  apparitions, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  145 

warriors  who  came  forth  from  their  tombs  with 
stars  above  their  heads.  To-day  that  poetic  frip- 
pery is  replaced  by  Jehovah,  by  the  zither,  by 
angels,  by  seraph's  wings,  by  the  whole  wardrobe 
of  paradise  freshly  renovated,  with  the  words  'im- 
mense, infinite,  solitude,  intelligence.'  There  are 
lakes  and  words  of  God,  a  sort  of  Christianized 
pantheism,  enriched  with  rare  rhymes  evolved 
with  much  toil,  emeraude  and  fraude,  akul  and 
glai'eul,  etc.  In  short,  we  have  changed  our  lati- 
tude; instead  of  being  in  the  North,  we  are  in 
the  East;  but  the  shadows  are  quite  as  dense 
there." 

"If  the  ode  is  obscure,"  said  Zephirine,  "the 
declaration  seems  clear  enough." 

"And  the  archangel's  armor  is  a  decidedly  thin 
muslin  dress,"  said  Francis. 

Although  courtesy  demanded  that  they  should 
pretend  to  think  the  ode  enchanting  on  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  account,  the  women,  furious  because 
they  had  no  poet  at  their  service  to  call  them 
angels,  rose  to  their  feet  as  if  they  were  sadly 
bored,  murmuring  frigidly:  Very  fine!  how  pretty! 
lovely! 

"If  you  love  me,  you  will  not  compliment  the 
author  or  his  angel  either,"  said  Lolotte  to  her  dear 
Adrien,  in  a  despotic  tone  which  he  was  bound  to 
obey. 

"After  all,  it's  nothing  but  words,"  said  Ze- 
phirine to  Francis,  "and  love  is  poetry  in  action." 

"You  said  then  just  what  I  was  thinking,  Zizine, 
10 


146  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

but  I  couldn't  have  expressed  it  so  neatly,"  re- 
joined Stanislas,  eyeing  himself  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  caressing  expression. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  would  give,"  said  Amelie  to 
Du  Chatelet,  "to  see  Nais's  pride  have  a  fall,  for 
she  allows  herself  to  be  called  an  archangel  as  if 
she  were  better  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  asks  us  to 
meet  such  canaille  as  the  son  of  an  apothecary  and 
a  nurse,  whose  sister  is  a  grisette,  and  works  in  a 
printing  office." 

"As  the  father  sold  biscuits  for  worms,*  he  ought 
to  have  made  his  son  take  them,"  said  Jacques. 

"He  continues  at  his  father's  trade,  for  what  he 
has  just  given  us  seems  to  me  very  like  a  drug, "  ob- 
served Stanislas,  assuming  one  of  his  most  fetching 
attitudes.    "Drug  for  drug,  I  prefer  something  else. " 

In  a  moment,  everybody  was  doing  his  or  her 
best  to  humiliate  Lucien  by  some  aristocratic  sar- 
casm. Lili,  the  devotee,  looked  upon  it  as  a  char- 
itable action,  saying  that  it  was  high  time  to  open 
Nais's  eyes,  for  she  was  on  the  point  of  making  a 
fool  of  herself.  Francis,  the  diplomat,  undertook 
to  guide  this  absurd  conspiracy,  in  which  all  these 
petty  minds  were  as  deeply  interested  as  in  the 
final  catastrophe  of  a  melodrama,  seeing  therein  an 
exciting  adventure  to  be  talked  about  the  next  day. 
The  ex-consul,  who  was  by  no  means  anxious  to 
fight  with  a  young  poet  who,  before  his  mistress's 
eyes,  would  fly  into  a  rage  at  an  insulting  word, 

*Vers— The  French  word  for  -verse  and  verses  is  also  the  plural  form  of  ver, 
meaning  worm,  hence  the  French  pun  is  untranslatable. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  147 

realized  that  Lucien  must  be  attacked  with  a  con- 
secrated weapon  against  which  revenge  was  impos- 
sible. He  followed  the  example  set  by  the  adroit 
Chatelet  when  he  desired  to  make  Lucien  recite 
some  of  his  own  lines.  He  went  and  talked  with 
the  bishop,  pretending  to  share  the  enthusiasm  the 
ode  had  awakened  in  His  Grace;  then  he  began  to 
mystify  him  by  giving  him  to  understand  that  Lu- 
cien's  mother  was  a  very  superior  woman  of  an 
exceedingly  modest  nature,  who  supplied  her  son 
with  the  themes  of  all  his  compositions.  Lucien's 
greatest  desire  was  to  see  justice  done  to  his  mother, 
whom  he  adored.  Once  this  idea  was  implanted  in 
the  bishop's  mind,  Francis  trusted  to  the  chances 
of  conversation  to  bring  forth  the  insulting  remark 
which  he  had  undertaken  to  make  monseigneur 
utter. 

When  Francis  and  the  bishop  returned  to  the 
circle  in  the  centre  of  which  Lucien  stood,  interest 
redoubled  among  those  who  were  already  giving 
him  hemlock  to  drink  in  small  doses.  The  poor 
poet,  being  entirely  unfamiliar  with  the  devious 
practices  of  salons,  could  only  look  at  Madame  de 
Bargeton  and  reply  awkwardly  to  the  awkward 
questions  that  were  put  to  him.  He  was  ignorant 
of  the  names  and  rank  of  most  of  those  present,  and 
he  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  women  who  said 
absurd  things  to  him  that  made  him  ashamed. 
Moreover,  he  felt  a  thousand  leagues  apart  from 
those  Angoumois  divinities,  who  called  him  some- 
times Monsieur  Chardon,  sometimes    Monsieur  de 


148  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

Rubempre,  while  they  called  one  another  Lolotte, 
Adrien,  Astolphe,  Lili,  Fifine.  His  confusion  was 
extreme  when,  having  taken  Lili  for  a  man's  name, 
he  called  the  outspoken  Monsieur  de  Senonches 
Monsieur  Lili.  The  Nimrod  retorted  with  a  Mon- 
sieur Lulu?  that  made  Madame  de  Bargeton  blush 
to  the  tips  of  her  ears. 

"She  must  be  completely  blinded  to  admit  that 
little  fellow  here  and  present  him  to  us!"  he  said 
in  an  undertone. 

"Madame  la  Marquise,"  said  Zephirine  to  Ma- 
dame de  Pimentel,  in  a  low  voice  but  loud  enough 
to  be  overheard,  "don't  you  see  a  great  resemblance 
between  Monsieur  Chardon  and  Monsieur  de  Cante- 
Croix?" 

"The  resemblance  is  imaginary,"  Madame  de 
Pimentel  replied  with  a  smile. 

"Glory  has  a  fascination  that  one  may  acknowl- 
edge," said  Madame  de  Bargeton  to  the  marchion- 
ess. "There  are  women  who  fall  in  love  with 
grandeur  as  others  do  with  pettiness,"  she  added, 
glancing  at  Francis. 

Zephirine  did  not  understand,  for  in  her  eyes,  her 
consul  was  a  very  great  man ;  but  the  marchioness 
went  over  to  Nai's's  side,  laughing  heartily. 

"You  are  very  fortunate,  monsieur,"  said  Mon- 
sieur de  Pimentel  to  Lucien,  addressing  him  as 
Monsieur  de  Rubempre,  after  previously  calling 
him  Chardon;  "you  are  never  bored,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Do  you  work  quickly?"  Lolotte  asked  him,  in 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  1 49 

the  tone  in  which  she  would  have  asked  a  carpenter : 
"Does  it  take  you  long  to  make  a  box?" 

Lucien  was  crushed  by  that  sledge-hammer  blow; 
but  he  raised  his  head  as  he  heard  Madame  de 
Bargeton  reply,  with  a  smile: 

"My  dear,  poetry  doesn't  grow  in  Monsieur  de 
Rubempre'shead  as  grass  grows  in  our  courtyards." 

"Madame,"  said  the  bishop  to  Lolotte,  "we  can- 
not have  too  much  respect  for  the  noble  minds 
which  God  has  illumined  with  one  of  His  rays. 
Yes,  poetry  is  a  holy  thing.  Poetry  means  suffer- 
ing. How  many  silent,  wakeful  nights  were  the 
price  of  the  strophes  you  admire!  Salute  the  poet 
with  affection,  for  he  almost  always  leads  an  un- 
happy life,  and  God  doubtless  reserves  a  place  for 
him  in  Heaven,  among  His  prophets.  This  young 
man  is  a  poet,"  he  added,  laying  his  hand  on  Lu- 
cien's  head;  "do  you  not  see  fatality  written  on 
that  fine  brow?" 

Happy  at  being  so  nobly  defended,  Lucien  saluted 
the  bishop  with  a  grateful  glance,  little  thinking 
that  he  was  destined  to  be  his  executioner. 

Madame  de  Bargeton  bestowed  on  the  hostile 
circle  about  her  a  triumphant  glance  that  buried 
itself,  like  a  javelin,  in  the  hearts  of  her  rivals, 
whose  rage  redoubled. 

"Ah!  monseigneur,"  said  the  poet,  hoping  to 
strike  those  foolish  heads  with  his  golden  sceptre, 
"the  ordinary  man  has  neither  your  intellect  nor 
your  charity.  Our  sorrows  are  not  known,  nor 
does  anyone  know  of  our  toil.     The  miner  has  less 


150  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

difficulty  in  taking  gold  from  the  mine  than  we  have 
in  wresting  our  images  from  the  entrails  of  the 
most  ungrateful  of  tongues.  If  the  aim  of  poetry  be 
to  place  ideas  at  the  precise  point  where  all  the 
world  may  see  them  and  feel  them,  the  poet  must 
constantly  run  over  the  scale  of  human  intellects, 
in  order  to  satisfy  them  all ;  he  must  conceal  logic 
and  sentiment,  two  mighty  enemies,  beneath  the 
brightest  colors;  he  must  enclose  a  whole  world  of 
poetry  in  a  phrase,  summarize  whole  systems  of 
philosophy  in  a  single  picture;  in  a  word,  his 
poems  are  seeds  from  which  flowers  should  spring 
and  bloom  in  the  hearts  of  his  fellows,  seeking  the 
furrows  ploughed  by  individual  sentiments.  Must 
one  not  have  felt  everything  in  order  to  express 
everything?  And  to  feel  keenly  is  to  suffer,  is  it 
not?  Thus  poetry  is  brought  into  the  world  only 
after  painful  journeys  into  the  vast  regions  of 
thought  and  of  society.  Are  not  those  works  im- 
mortal to  which  we  owe  beings  whose  lives  seem 
more  vividly  true  to  us  than  the  lives  of  those  who 
have  really  lived;  like  Richardson's  Clarissa, 
Chenier's  Camille,  Tibullus's  Delia,  Ariosto's 
Angelica,  Dante's  Francesca,  Moliere's  Alceste, 
Beaumarchais'  Figaro,  Walter  Scott's  Rebecca, 
Cervantes'  Don  Quixote?" 

"And  what  will  you  create  for  us?"  queried 
Chatelet. 

"To  announce  such  creations  in  advance  is  to 
give  one's  self  a  certificate  of  genius.  Besides,  such 
sublime  productions  demand  long  experience  of  the 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  151 

world,  an  exhaustive  study  of  human  passions  and 
interests  which  1  have  had  no  opportunity  to  under- 
take; but  I  am  beginning!"  he  added,  bitterly, 
casting  a  revengeful  glance  upon  the  circle.  "The 
brain  has  a  long  period  of  gestation — " 

"Your  accouchement  will  be  a  painful  one,"  in- 
terrupted Monsieur  du  Hautoy. 

"Perhaps  your  excellent  mother  will  assist  you," 
said  the  bishop. 

This  shaft  so  cleverly  prepared,  this  premeditated 
vengeance,  kindled  a  gleam  of  joy  in  every  eye. 
Upon  every  mouth  was  a  smile  of  aristocratic  satis- 
faction, augmented  by  the  stupidity  of  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton,  who  began  to  laugh  some  time  after  the 
blow. 

"Monseigneur,  you  are  a  little  too  clever  for  us 
at  this  moment,  these  ladies  don't  understand  you," 
said  Madame  de  Bargeton,  by  that  single  sentence 
paralyzing  the  laughter  and  drawing  all  eyes  to 
herself.  "A  poet  who  draws  all  his  inspiration 
from  the  Bible  has  a  veritable  mother  in  the  Church. 
— Monsieur  de  Rubempre,  give  us  Saint  Jean  dans 
Pathmos,  or  Le  Festin  de  Balthazar,  to  show  mon- 
seigneur that  Rome  is  still  the  Magna  Parens  of 
Virgil." 

The  women  smiled  at  one  another  when  they 
heard  Nais  say  the  two  Latin  words. 

Early  in  life  the  haughtiest  courage  is  not  with- 
out its  moments  of  depression.  The  first  effect  of 
the  blow  was  to  send  Lucien  straight  to  the  bottom, 
but  he  spurned  it  with  his  foot  and  returned  to  the 


152  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

surface,  registering  a  vow  to  override  the  clique. 
Like  a  bull,  irritated  by  the  pricking  of  a  thousand 
darts,  he  stood  erect,  furious  with  rage,  and  obeyed 
Louise's  command  by  declaiming  Saint  Jean  dans 
Pathmos.  But  most  of  the  card-tables  had  attracted 
their  quota  of  players,  who  fell  back  into  the  rut  of 
their  regular  habits,  finding  a  pleasure  there  that 
poetry  did  not  afford  them.  Moreover,  the  ven- 
geance of  so  many  wounded  self-esteems  would  not 
have  been  complete  without  the  negative  contempt 
for  native  poetry  which  they  displayed  by  deserting 
Lucien  and  Madame  de  Bargeton.  Everyone  seemed 
preoccupied;  one  went  to  talk  about  a  proposed 
departmental  road  with  the  prefect,  another  sug- 
gested varying  the  evening's  entertainment  with 
a  little  music.  The  first  society  of  Angoul£me,  con- 
scious of  its  own  unfitness  to  pass  judgment  on  the 
merits  of  poetry,  was  especially  curious  to  learn  the 
opinion  of  the  Pimentels  and  Rastignacs  concerning 
Lucien,  and  several  persons  gathered  about  them. 
The  great  influence  which  those  two  families  exer- 
cised in  the  department  was  always  recognized  on 
great  occasions;  everyone  was  jealous  of  them  and 
fawned  upon  them,  for  they  all  felt  that  they  might 
some  day  need  their  patronage. 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  poet  and  his  poetry?" 
said  Jacques  to  the  marchioness,  on  whose  estate 
he  hunted. 

"Why,  for  provincial  verses,"  she  said  with  a 
smile,  "they're  not  bad;  however,  such  a  comely 
poet  can  do  nothing  ill." 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  I  53 

Everyone  thought  this  an  admirable  judgment, 
and  they  went  about  repeating  it,  giving  it  an  ill- 
natured  turn  which  the  marchioness  by  no  means 
intended.  Chatelet  was  called  upon  at  this  juncture 
to  accompany  Monsieur  de  Bartas,  who  murdered 
the  great  aria  from  Figaro.  Once  the  door  was 
opened  to  music,  they  must  listen  to  the  romanza 
of  the  days  of  chivalry,  written  under  the  Empire 
by  Chateaubriand,  as  rendered  by  Chatelet.  Then 
came  pieces  for  four  hands,  executed  by  young 
ladies,  and  called  for  by  Madame  du  Brossard,  who 
desired  to  display  her  dear  Camille's  talent  in  the 
presence  of  Monsieur  de  Severac. 

Madame  de  Bargeton,  wounded  by  the  disdainful 
treatment  of  her  poet,  met  scorn  with  scorn  by  going 
into  her  boudoir  while  the  music  was  in  progress. 
She  was  followed  by  the  bishop,  to  whom  his  grand- 
vicar  had  explained  the  profound  irony  of  his  in- 
voluntary epigram,  and  who  was  desirous  to  make 
amends  therefor.  Mademoiselle  de  Rastignac,  who 
was  fascinated  by  the  poetry,  glided  into  the 
boudoir,  unknown  to  her  mother.  As  she  sat  down 
upon  her  quilted-cover  couch,  to  which  she  led  Lu- 
cien,  Louise  was  able,  unseen  and  unheard,  to 
whisper  in  his  ear: 

"Dear  angel,  they  did  not  understand  you!  but 

"  '  Your  lines  are  sweet,  I  love  to  say  them  o'er.'  " 

Lucien,  comforted  by  this  flattery,  forgot  his 
troubles  for  a  moment. 


154  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

"Renown  is  not  to  be  bought  cheap,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton,  taking  his  hand  and  pressing  it. 
"Suffer,  suffer,  my  friend;  you  will  be  great,  your 
sorrows  are  the  price  of  your  immortality.  I  would 
like  well  to  sustain  the  burden  of  such  a  conflict. 
God  preserve  you  from  a  colorless  life,  without 
battles  to  fight,  a  life  in  which  the  eagle's  wings 
never  have  room  enough!  I  envy  your  suffering, 
for  you  are  at  least  alive!  You  will  exert  all  your 
strength,  you  will  hope  for  victory!  Your  struggle 
will  be  a  glorious  one.  When  you  have  reached 
the  sphere  where  great  minds  hold  sway,  remember 
the  poor  creatures,  disinherited  by  fate,  whose  in- 
telligence is  made  naught  by  the  oppression  of 
a  moral  nitrogen,  and  who  die,  having  always 
known  what  life  was  without  being  able  to  live  it, 
who  have  keen  eyes  and  have  seen  nothing,  who 
have  a  most  delicate  sense  of  smell  and  have  smelt 
nothing  but  decaying  flowers.  Sing  then  of  the 
plant  that  is  withering  away  in  the  heart  of  a  forest, 
stifled  by  creepers,  by  dense,  greedy  vegetation, 
having  never  been  caressed  by  the  sun,  and  that 
dies  without  having  bloomed.  Would  not  that  be 
a  terribly  melancholy  poem,  a  most  original  subject? 
What  a  sublime  picture  would  be  that  of  a  young 
girl  born  beneath  Asian  skies,  or  of  some  maiden 
of  the  desert  transplanted  to  some  cold  western 
clime,  calling  to  her  beloved  sun,  dying  of  mysteri- 
ous grief,  overwhelmed  alike  by  cold  and  by  love! 
It  would  be  the  type  of  many  lives." 

"You  would  thus  depict  the  soul  that  remembers 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  155 

Heaven,"  said  the  bishop;  "a  poem  that  must 
have  been  written  long  ago;  I  have  been  glad 
to  recognize  a  portion  of  it  in  the  Song  of 
Songs." 

"Undertake  it, "  said  Laure  de  Rastignac,  artlessly 
expressing  her  belief  in  Lucien's  genius. 

"France  lacks  a  great  sacred  poem,"  said  the 
bishop.  "Believe  me,  renown  and  fortune  await 
the  man  of  talent  who  will  labor  for  religion." 

"He  shall  undertake  it,  monseigneur,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  with  emphasis.  "Do  you  not 
see  the  idea  of  the  poem  already  shining  in  his 
eyes  like  the  first  gleam  of  dawn?" 

"Nais  is  treating  us  very  badly,"  said  Fifine. 
"What  in  the  world  is  she  doing?" 

"Don't  you  hear  her  ?"  replied  Stanislas.  "She's 
mounted  on  her  long  words,  which  have  no  head  or 
tail." 

Amelie,  Fifine,  Adrien  and  Francis  appeared  at 
the  door  of  the  boudoir,  with  Madame  de  Rastignac, 
who  was  looking  for  her  daughter,  to  take  her 
home. 

"Nais,"  said  the  two  ladies,  delighted  to  disturb 
the  little  party  in  the  boudoir,  "it  would  be  very 
good  of  you  to  play  us  something." 

"My  dear  child,"  replied  Madame  de  Bargeton, 
"Monsieur  de  Rubempre  is  going  to  recite  his  Saint 
Jean  dans  Pathmos,  a  magnificent  biblical  poem." 

"Biblical!"  echoed  Fifine,  aghast. 

Amelie  and  Fifine  returned  to  the  salon,  taking 
that  word  with  them  as  food  for  mockery.     Lucien 


y 


156  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

excused  himself  from  repeating  the  poem  on  the 
plea  of  failure  of  memory.  When  he  reappeared 
he  no  longer  aroused  the  slightest  interest.  Every- 
one was  talking  or  playing  cards.  The  poet  had 
been  stripped  of  all  his  plumes;  the  landowners  saw- 
no  way  in  which  they  could  make  him  useful ;  the 
people  with  pretensions  feared  him  as  a  power  hos- 
tile to  their  ignorance;  the  women,  who  were 
jealous  of  Madame  de  Bargeton — the  Beatrice  of  this 
new  Dante,  as  the  grand-vicar  expressed  it, — cast 
coldly  disdainful  glances  upon  him. 

"And  that  is  society!"  said  Lucien  to  himself  as 
he  went  down  to  L'Houmeau  by  the  Beaulieu  steps, 
for  there  are  moments  in  life  when  one  likes  to  take 
the  longest  road,  in  order  to  stimulate  by  the  motion 
of  walking,  the  movement  of  the  ideas  that  occupy 
one's  mind  and  to  which  one  wishes  to  give  free 
rein. 

Far  from  discouraging  him,  the  passion  due  to 
foiled  ambition  gave  Lucien  new  strength.  Like 
all  those  whose  instinct  leads  them  to  a  lofty  sphere, 
which  they  reach  before  they  are  able  to  maintain 
themselves  therein,  he  resolved  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing else  in  order  to  retain  his  foothold  in  good 
society.  As  he  walked  along,  he  extracted  one  by 
one  the  poisoned  shafts  that  had  entered  his  flesh, 
he  talked  to  himself  aloud,  he  reviled  the  fools  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal ;  he  thought  of  clever  retorts  to 
the  absurd  questions  they  had  asked  him,  and  was 
in  despair  to  have  his  wits  come  to  him  too  late. 
When  he  reached  the  Bordeaux  road  which  winds 


EVE  AND   DAVID 


1 1  'hen  Lucie n  reached  the  Bordeaux  road,  which 
winds  about  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  follows  the  bank 
of  the  Chareute,  he  thought  that  he  saw,  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  Eve  and  David  sitting  on  a  piece  of 
timber  by  the  river,  near  a  large  factory,  and  he  took 
a  path  that  led  down  toward  them. 


■ ,    /    , .. . 


+J? 


k\* 


^'VV" 


OtlVr'N  J-HpKtKu 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  I  57 

about  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  follows  the  bank  of  the 
Charente,  he  thought  that  he  saw,  by  the  light  of 
the  moon,  Eve  and  David  sitting  on  a  piece  of  timber 
by  the  river,  near  a  large  factory,  and  he  took  a 
path  that  led  down  toward  them. 


* 

While  Lucien  was  hurrying  to  the  torture  at  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton's,  his  sister  donned  a  dress  of  pink 
calico  with  innumerable  little  stripes,  a  straw  hat 
and  a  little  silk  shawl;  a  simple  costume  which 
would  have  made  one  think  she  was  handsomely- 
dressed,  as  is  always  the  case  with  those  persons 
whose  natural  nobility  of  bearing  sets  off  the  poorest 
accessories.  Indeed,  when  she  set  aside  her  work- 
ing-girl's costume,  she  awed  David  prodigiously. 
Although  the  printer  had  determined  to  talk  about 
himself,  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  when  he 
gave  the  fair  Eve  his  arm  to  walk  through  L'Hou- 
meau.  Love  delights  in  this  sort  of  respectful  ter- 
ror, like  that  which  God's  glory  arouses  in  the 
faithful.  The  two  lovers  walked  silently  toward 
Pont  Sainte-Anne  on  their  way  to  the  left  bank  of 
the  Charente.  Eve,  who  found  the  silence  burden- 
some, paused  in  the  middle  of  the  bridge  to  gaze  at 
the  river,  which,  from  that  point  to  the  point  where 
the  powder  mill  was  being  built,  forms  a  long  sheet, 
whereon  the  setting  sun  threw  at  that  moment  a 
joyous  flood  of  light. 

"What  a  lovely  evening!"  she  said,  casting  about 
for  a  subject  of  conversation;  "the  air  is  balmy  and 
cool  at  the  same  time,  the  flowers  smell  so  sweet 
and  the  sky  is  superb." 

(i59) 


l6o  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

"Everything seems  to  speak  to  the  heart,"  David 
replied,  trying  to  work  around  to  his  love  by 
analogy.  "Those  who  love  derive  infinite  pleasure 
from  finding  in  the  details  of  a  landscape,  in  the 
transparent  clearness  of  the  air,  in  the  perfumes 
that  rise  from  the  earth,  the  poetic  feeling  that  they 
have  in  their  hearts.     Nature  speaks  for  them." 

"And  she  loosens  their  tongues  too,"  laughed  Eve. 
"You  were  very  silent  as  we  came  through  L'Hou- 
meau.     Do  you  know,  I  was  really  embarrassed!" 

"You  looked  so  beautiful  that  I  was  spellbound!" 
replied  David  artlessly. 

"So  I  am  less  beautiful  now,  am  I?"  she  asked. 

"No,  but  I  am  so  happy  to  be  walking  alone  with 
you,  that — " 

He  stopped,  abashed,  and  looked  at  the  hills  down 
which  the  road  winds  from  Saintes. 

"If  you  take  any  pleasure  in  this  walk,  I  am 
delighted,  for  I  feel  in  duty  bound  to  give  you  an 
evening  in  exchange  for  the  one  you  sacrificed  to 
me.  By  refusing  to  go  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's, 
you  were  as  generous  as  Lucien  was  in  taking  the 
risk  of  angering  her  by  his  request." 

"Not  generous,  but  wise,"  replied  David.  "As 
we  are  alone  here  in  the  open  air,  with  no  other 
witnesses  than  the  reeds  and  bushes  that  border  the 
Charente,  permit  me,  dear  Eve,  to  express  to  you 
some  of  the  anxious  thoughts  that  Lucien's  present 
course  causes  me.  After  what  I  have  just  said  to 
him,  my  fears  will  seem  to  you,  I  hope,  a  refine- 
ment of  friendship.    You  and  your  mother  have  done 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  161 

everything  to  raise  him  above  his  station;  but,  by 
arousing  his  ambition,  have  you  not  imprudently 
exposed  him  to  great  suffering?  How  will  he  sus- 
tain himself  in  the  world  to  which  his  tastes  are 
leading  him?  I  know  him!  it  is  his  nature  to  like 
to  reap  without  labor.  Social  duties  will  consume 
his  time,  and  time  is  the  only  capital  of  people  who 
have  no  fortune  but  their  intellectual  powers;  he 
likes  to  shine,  society  will  aggravate  his  longings, 
which  no  amount  of  money  will  satisfy;  he  will 
spend  money  and  earn  none;  in  a  word,  you  have 
accustomed  him  to  look  upon  himself  as  a  great 
man;  but,  before  acknowledging  any  sort  of  superi- 
ority, the  world  demands  some  striking  success. 
Now,  literary  success  can  be  won  only  in  solitude 
and  by  persistent  work.  What  will  Madame  de 
Bargeton  give  your  brother  in  return  for  so  many 
days  passed  at  her  feet?  Lucien  is  too  proud  to 
accept  help,  and  we  know  that  he  is  as  yet  too  poor 
to  continue  to  meet  her  social  coterie,  which  is 
doubly  ruinous.  Sooner  or  later,  that  woman  will 
abandon  our  dear  brother,  after  she  has  killed  all 
taste  for  work  in  him,  after  she  has  developed  in 
him  the  taste  for  luxury,  contempt  for  our  humble 
mode  of  life,  love  of  pleasure,  and  his  inclination  to 
idleness,  the  curse  of  poetic  souls.  Yes,  I  tremble 
to  think  that  this  great  lady  is  amusing  herself  with 
Lucien  as  a  mere  plaything:  either  she  loves  him 
sincerely  and  will  make  him  forget  everything,  or 
she  doesn't  love  him  and  will  make  him  unhappy, 
for  he  is  daft  over  her." 
ii 


162  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

"You  freeze  my  heart,"  said  Eve,  stopping  at 
the  lock.  "But,  as  long  as  my  mother  has  the 
strength  to  continue  her  difficult  work,  and  as  long 
as  I  live,  the  proceeds  of  our  toil  will  be  sufficient 
perhaps  to  meet  Lucien's  expenses,  and  enable  him 
to  await  the  moment  when  his  fortunes  will  begin 
to  mend.  I  shall  never  lose  courage,  for  the  idea  of 
working  for  a  person  one  loves,"  said  Eve,  with  ani- 
mation, "takes  away  all  the  bitterness  and  weari- 
ness of  the  work  itself.  I  am  happy  when  I  think 
for  whom  I  am  taking  so  much  trouble,  if  indeed  it 
is  trouble.  Yes,  you  need  have  no  fear,  we  shall 
earn  enough  for  Lucien  to  go  into  the  best  society. 
There  is  where  his  fortune  lies." 

"And  there  lies  his  ruin  too,"  rejoined  David. 
"Listen,  dear  Eve.  The  slow  execution  of  works 
of  genius  demands  either  a  considerable  fortune 
ready  at  hand,  or  the  sublime  cynicism  of  a  life  of 
poverty.  Believe  me!  Lucien  has  such  an  un- 
bounded horror  of  the  privations  of  poverty,  he  has 
found  the  aroma  of  feasts  and  the  vapor  of  success 
so  pleasant  to  his  senses,  his  self-esteem  has  as- 
sumed such  vast  proportions  in  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  boudoir,  that  he  will  try  everything 
rather  than  give  it  all  up ;  and  the  proceeds  of  your 
toil  will  never  correspond  with  his  needs." 

"Ah!  you  are  only  a  false  friend!"  cried  Eve  in 
desperation.  "Otherwise,  you  would  not  discour- 
age us  so." 

"Eve!  Eve!"  replied  David,  "I  would  like  to  be 
Lucien's  brother.     You  alone  can  give  me  that  title, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  163 

which  would  make  it  possible  for  him  to  accept 
everything  from  me,  which  would  give  me  the  right 
to  devote  myself  to  him  with  the  same  devoted  love 
that  prompts  your  sacrifices,  but  combined  with  the 
discernment  of  one  who  looks  forward  to  the  future. 
Eve,  my  dear,  loved  child,  consent  to  give  Lucien 
a  treasury  upon  which  he  can  draw  without  shame ! 
Will  not  a  brother's  purse  be  like  his  own?  If  you 
only  knew  all  the  reflections  that  Lucien's  new 
position  has  suggested  to  me!  If  he  desires  to  goto 
Madame  de  Bargeton's,  the  poor  boy  must  not  be 
my  proof-reader,  he  must  not  live  at  L'Houmeau, 
you  must  not  continue  to  work  and  your  mother 
must  abandon  her  profession.  If  you  consent  to  be- 
come my  wife,  everything  will  be  made  smooth; 
Lucien  can  live  on  the  second  floor  at  my  house, 
while  I  am  building  an  apartment  for  him  above  the 
lean-to  at  the  end  of  the  courtyard,  unless  my  father 
will  agree  to  put  on  a  second  floor.  In  that  way  we 
could  arrange  for  him  an  independent  life,  without 
care.  My  desire  to  support  him  will  give  me  such 
courage  and  energy  in  money-making  as  I  should 
never  have  if  I  alone  were  concerned;  but  it  de- 
pends upon  you  to  authorize  my  devotion.  Perhaps 
some  day  he  will  go  to  Paris,  the  only  stage  upon 
which  he  can  show  what  he  really  is,  and  where 
his  talents  will  be  appreciated  and  rewarded.  Life 
in  Paris  is  very  expensive,  and  three  of  us  will  not 
be  too  many  to  support  him  there.  Moreover,  do 
not  you,  and  your  mother  too,  need  a  support? 
Dear  Eve,  marry  me  for  love  of  Lucien.     Later  you 


164  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

will  love  me  perhaps,  when  you  see  the  efforts  I 
will  make  to  serve  him  and  to  make  you  happy. 
We  are  both  equally  modest  in  our  tastes,  we  need 
but  little;  Lucien's  happiness  shall  be  our  great 
care,  and  his  heart  the  treasure-chest  in  which  we 
will  put  fortune,  sentiments,  sensations,  every- 
thing!" 

"The  proprieties  keep  us  apart, "  said  Eve,  deeply 
moved  when  she  saw  how  his  great  love  humbled 
itself.  "You  are  rich  and  I  am  poor.  One  must 
love  dearly  to  pass  over  such  a  difficulty." 

"Then  you  don't  love  me  enough  yet?"  cried 
David  in  dismay. 

"But  perhaps  your  father  would  not  be  willing— " 

"Good,  good,"  said  David,  "if  there's  only  my 
father  to  be  consulted,  you  will  be  my  wife.  Eve, 
dear  Eve,  you  have,  at  this  moment,  made  life  a 
very  light  burden  for  me  to  carry.  Alas!  my  heart 
was  very  heavy  with  feelings  which  I  could  not 
express.  Just  tell  me  that  you  love  me  a  little,  and 
I  will  find  the  requisite  courage  to  tell  you  all  the 
rest." 

"Indeed,"  said  she,  "you  make  me  very  much 
ashamed;  but,  as  we  are  confiding  our  sentiments 
to  each  other,  1  will  tell  you  that  I  have  never  in 
all  my  life  given  a  thought  to  any  other  man  than 
you.  You  have  seemed  to  me  one  of  the  men  to 
whom  a  woman  may  well  be  proud  to  belong,  and  I 
did  not  dare  to  hope  for  such  a  great  destiny  for 
myself,  a  poor  working-girl  without  prospects  of 
any  kind." 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  165 

"Enough,  enough,"  he  said,  sitting  on  the  cross- 
bar of  the  lock,  to  which  they  had  returned,  for  they 
were  walking  back  and  forth  over  the  same  ground 
like  fools. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  expressing  for 
the  first  time  the  charming  anxiety  women  feel  for 
the  well-being  of  one  who  belongs  to  them. 

"Nothing  but  good,"  said  he.  "On  looking  for- 
ward to  a  long,  happy  life,  the  mind  is  dazzled,  as 
it  were,  the  heart  is  overwhelmed.  Why  am  I  the 
happier?"  he  said  in  a  melancholy  tone.  "But  I 
know  why." 

Eve  glanced  at  him  with  a  coy,  questioning  ex- 
pression which  signified  her  desire  for  an  explana- 
tion. 

"Dear  Eve,  I  receive  more  than  I  give.  I  shall 
always  love  you  better  than  you  will  love  me,  be- 
cause I  have  more  reason  to  love  you :  you  are  an 
angel  and  I'm  a  man." 

"I  am  not  so  learned,"  said  Eve,  with  a  smile. 
"I  love  you  dearly — " 

"As  much  as  you  love  Lucien?"  he  interrupted 
her. 

"Enough  to  be  your  wife,  to  devote  myself  to 
you  and  to  try  to  cause  you  no  sorrow  during  the 
life,  perhaps  a  little  hard  at  first,  that  we  shall  live 
together." 

"You  have  seen,  dear  Eve,  haven't  you,  that  I 
have  loved  you  since  the  day  1  first  saw  you?" 

' '  What  woman  does  not  know  when  she  is  loved  ?" 
she  asked. 


166  •   LOST   ILLUSIONS 

"Then  let  me  demolish  the  scruples  that  my  sup- 
posed wealth  causes  you.  I  am  poor,  dear  Eve. 
Yes,  my  father  has  taken  pleasure  in  ruining  me; 
he  has  speculated  on  my  work;  he  has  done  as 
many  pretended  benefactors  do  to  their  proteges. 
If  I  become  rich,  it  will  be  through  you.  This  is 
not  mere  lover's  talk,  but  the  reflection  of  a  man 
who  thinks.  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  of  my  failings, 
and  they  are  enormous  for  a  man  obliged  to  earn  his 
living.  My  character,  my  habits,  the  occupations  I 
delight  in  make  me  unfit  for  any  sort  of  commerce 
or  speculation,  and  yet  we  can  become  rich  only  by 
carrying  on  some  trade.  If  I  am  capable  of  discov- 
ering a  gold  mine,  I  am  singularly  incapable  of 
working  it.  But  you  who,  through  love  for  your 
brother,  have  descended  to  the  smallest  details,  who 
have  the  genius  of  economy,  the  patient  attention 
of  the  true  business  man,  you  will  reap  the  harvest 
I  have  sown.  Our  situation,  for  I  long  ago  became 
one  of  your  family  in  my  own  mind,  weighs  so 
heavily  upon  my  heart,  that  I  have  employed  my 
days  and  nights  seeking  opportunities  to  make 
money.  My  knowledge  of  chemistry  and  my  ob- 
servation of  the  necessities  of  commerce  have  put 
me  on  the  track  of  a  valuable  discovery.  I  can  tell 
you  nothing  about  it  yet,  I  foresee  too  many  delays. 
We  shall  suffer  for  some  years  perhaps;  but  I  shall 
end  by  finding  industrial  processes  which  others 
than  myself  are  on  the  scent  of;  and  which  will 
assure  us  a  large  fortune  if  I  reach  the  goal  first.  I 
have  said  nothing  to  Lucien,  for  his  impulsive  nature 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  167 

would  spoil  everything;  he  would  convert  my  hopes 
into  realities,  he  would  live  like  a  grandee  and 
would  run  in  debt  perhaps.  So  do  you  keep  my 
secret.  Your  sweet,  loving  companionship  alone 
can  comfort  me  during  this  long  period  of  waiting, 
just  as  the  desire  to  enrich  you  and  Lucien  will  give 
me  constancy  and  persistence — " 

"1  had  guessed  also,"  Eve  interrupted,  "that  you 
were  one  of  those  inventors,  like  my  poor  father, 
who  need  a  wife  to  take  care  of  them." 

"You  love  me  then!  Oh!  tell  me  without  fear, 
for  I  saw  in  your  name  a  symbol  of  my  love.  Eve 
was  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  and  what  was 
materially  true  in  Adam's  case,  is  morally  true  in 
mine.     My  God!  do  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  lengthening  that  simple  syllable 
by  the  way  in  which  she  pronounced  it,  as  if  to 
depict  the  extent  of  her  love. 

"Well,  let  us  sit  down  here,"  he  said,  leading 
Eve  to  a  long  beam  that  lay  on  the  ground  near 
the  wheels  of  a  paper-mill.  "Let  me  breathe 
the  evening  air,  listen  to  the  calling  of  the  tree- 
toads  and  gaze  at  the  moonbeams  shimmering  on 
the  water;  let  me  grasp  the  full  meaning  of  this 
scene  where  I  seem  to  see  my  happiness  written 
upon  everything,  and  which  appears  to  me  for 
the  first  time  in  all  its  splendor,  illumined  by 
love,  embellished  by  you.  Eve,  my  dear  love, 
this  is  the  first  moment  of  unalloyed  joy  1  have 
ever  known !  I  doubt  if  Lucien  is  as  happy  as 
lam." 


168  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

As  he  felt  Eve's  moist  hand  trembling  in  his  own, 
David  dropped  a  tear  upon  it 

"May  I  not  know  the  secret?"  she  said  in  a 
coaxing  tone. 

"You  have  a  sort  of  right  to  it,  for  your  father 
gave  much  thought  to  the  question,  which  is  be- 
coming a  serious  one.  This  is  why:  the  fall  of  the 
Empire  is  going  to  make  the  use  of  cotton  rags 
almost  universal,  because  they  are  so  much  cheaper 
than  linen.  At  this  moment,  paper  is  still  made 
from  flax  and  linen  rags;  but  those  materials  are 
very  expensive,  and  their  high  price  retards  the 
great  forward  movement  that  the  French  press  must 
necessarily  make  sooner  or  later.  Now,  the  pro- 
duction of  rags  cannot  be  forced.  Rags  are  the 
result  of  the  use  of  cloth,  and  the  population  of  a 
country  yields  only  a  certain  fixed  quantity.  That 
quantity  can  be  increased  only  by  an  increase  in 
the  ratio  of  births.  To  produce  a  perceptible  change 
in  its  population,  a  country  requires  a  quarter  of  a 
century  and  revolutionary  changes  in  its  customs, 
in  commerce  or  in  agriculture.  If,  therefore,  the 
requirements  of  the  paper  trade  exceed  the  produc- 
tion of  rags  in  France,  whether  it  be  twice  or  three 
times,  it  will  be  necessary,  in  order  to  maintain  the 
low  price  of  paper,  to  use  some  material  other  than 
rags  in  its  manufacture.  This  reasoning  rests  upon 
a  fact  which  is  well  illustrated  in  this  town.  The 
paper  mills  of  Angouleme,  the  last  to  abandon  the 
use  of  linen  rags,  see  cotton  taking  its  place  in  the 
pulp  with  alarming  rapidity." 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  169 

In  reply  to  a  question  from  the  girl,  who  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  pulp,  David  gave 
her  certain  information  concerning  paper-making, 
which  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  a  work  whose 
material  existence  is  due  to  the  paper  as  much  as  to 
the  press;  but  this  long  parenthesis  between  a  lover 
and  his  mistress  will  gain  in  interest  no  doubt  by 
being  somewhat  abridged. 

Paper,  a  product  no  less  marvelous  than  the 
printing  for  which  it  serves  as  a  basis,  had  long 
existed  in  China  when  it  made  its  way,  through 
the  underground  passages  of  commerce,  into  Asia 
Minor,  where,  about  the  year  750,  according  to 
some  traditions,  they  used  a  paper  made  of  cotton 
ground  and  reduced  to  pulp.  The  necessity  of 
finding  a  substitute  for  parchment,  which  was  very 
costly,  led  to  the  invention,  in  imitation  of  the  bom- 
bycinous  paper — such  was  the  name  given  to  the 
cotton  paper  of  the  East — of  paper  made  of  rags, 
some  say  at  Basle  in  1 170,  by  Greek  refugees ;  others 
say  at  Padua  in  1301,  by  an  Italian  named  Pax. 
Thus  paper  approached  perfection  very  slowly  and 
obscurely;  but  it  is  certain  that,  under  Charles  VI., 
pulp  for  playing  cards  was  made  at  Paris.  When 
the  immortal  Faust,  Coster  and  Gutenberg  had  in- 
vented THE  BOOK,  mechanics,  unknown  to  fame  like 
so  many  great  artists  of  that  period,  applied  paper- 
making  to  the  necessities  of  typography.  In  the 
fifteenth  century,  that  energetic,  guileless  epoch, 
the  names  of  the  different  sizes  of  paper,  as  well  as 
the  names  given  to  the  type,  bore  the  imprint  of 


IjO  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

the  simple  manners  of  the  time.  Thus  the  grape, 
the  Jesus,  the  colombier,  the  pot,  the  crown,  the 
shell,  the  wreath,  were  so  named  from  the  bunch  of 
grapes,  the  image  of  Our  Lord,  the  wreath,  the 
crown,  the  pot,  in  a  word,  from  the  water-mark  in 
the  centre  of  the  sheet,  just  as  later,  under  Napo- 
leon, the  water-mark  was  an  eagle;  whence  the 
paper  called  great  eagle.  In  the  same  way,  they 
called  the  different  type  cicero — pica — grand  canon, 
or  Saint-Augustin — long  primer — from  the  treatises 
of  Cicero,  liturgical  books  and  theological  works, 
for  which  the  type  were  first  used.  Italics  were  in- 
vented by  Aldus  at  Venice ;  hence  the  name.  Before 
the  invention  of  machine-made  paper,  which  is  made 
of  unlimited  length,  the  sheets  of  largest  size  were 
the  grand  jesus  or  the  grand  colombier;  the  latter  was 
seldom  used  except  for  atlases  or  for  engravings. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  dimensions  of  the  paper  to 
be  used  in  printing  were  governed  by  the  size  of 
the  bed  of  the  press.  At  the  time  when  David  was 
speaking,  endless  paper  was  believed  in  France  to 
be  a  mere  chimera,  although  Denis  Robert  of  Es- 
sonne  had  invented  a  machine  to  manufacture  it, 
about  1799,  and  Didot-Saint-Leger  afterwards  tried 
to  perfect  it.  Vellum,  invented  by  Ambroise  Didot, 
dates  only  from  1780.  This  rapid  sketch  shows 
conclusively  that  all  the  great  acquisitions  of  the 
mechanical  arts  and  of  the  intelligence  are  made 
very  slowly,  and  by  unnoticed  development,  pre- 
cisely as  nature  performs  her  work.  To  reach 
their  perfect  state,  writing, — yes,    and   language, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  171 

perhaps ! — had  to  feel  their  way  just  as  typography 
and  paper-making  had  to  do. 

"Rag-pickers  all  over  Europe  collect  rags,  old 
cloths  and  purchase  the  refuse  of  every  sort  of  tis- 
sue," said  the  printer  in  conclusion.  "This  refuse, 
carefully  sorted  out,  goes  to  the  warehouses  of  the 
wholesale  dealers  in  rags,  who  supply  the  paper- 
mills.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  the  extent  of  the 
business,  mademoiselle,  in  1814,  Cardon  the  banker, 
owner  of  the  mills  at  Buges  and  Langlee,  where 
Leorier  de  l'lsle  tried  as  long  ago  as  1776  to  solve 
the  problem  that  your  father  worked  upon,  had  a 
lawsuit  with  one  Proust  concerning  an  error  of  two 
million  pounds  of  rags  in  an  account  involving  ten 
million  pounds,  worth  four  million  francs!  The 
manufacturer  washes  his  rags  and  boils  them  down 
to  a  clear  pulp,  which  is  strained  exactly  as  a  cook 
strains  her  sauce  through  a  sieve,  over  an  iron 
framework  called  a  form,  the  interior  of  which  is 
filled  with  a  metallic  substance  with  the  water-mark 
in  the  centre  that  gives  its  name  to  the  paper. 
Thus  the  size  of  the  paper  depends  upon  the  size  of 
the  form.  When  I  was  with  Messieurs  Didot,  the 
question  was  even  then  being  considered  and  they 
are  considering  it  still,  for  the  process  your  father 
tried  to  find  is  one  of  the  most  imperative  necessi- 
ties of  the  time.  For  this  reason.  Although  the 
durability  of  linen,  as  compared  with  that  of  cotton, 
makes  the  linen  less  expensive  in  the  long  run, 
still,  as  with  poor  people  there  is  always  money  to 
be  paid  out,  they  prefer  to  pay  out  less  rather  than 


172  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

more,  and  on  the  principle  of  the  motto  Vce  victis! 
they  submit  to  enormous  losses.  The  bourgeois 
class  follows  the  same  course  as  the  poor  man. 
Thus  the  supply  of  linen  rags  is  failing.  In 
England,  where  cotton  has  taken  the  place  of  linen 
with  four-fifths  of  the  population,  paper  is  now 
made  from  cotton  exclusively.  This  paper,  which, 
in  the  first  place,  has  the  drawback  of  tearing  and 
cracking,  dissolves  so  quickly  in  water  that  a  book 
made  of  cotton  paper  will  be  reduced  to  pulp  if  left 
in  water  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  whereas  an  old  book 
wouldn't  be  destroyed  if  it  were  left  for  two  hours. 
When  the  old  book  was  dried,  although  it  would  be 
yellow  and  the  type  somewhat  faded,  it  would  still 
be  legible  and  the  work  would  not  be  ruined.  We 
are  approaching  a  time  when,  as  fortunes  continue 
to  diminish  by  the  process  of  equalization,  every 
one  will  grow  poor ;  we  shall  demand  cheap  cloth  and 
books,  just  as  there  is  beginning  to  be  a  demand  for 
small  pictures  for  lack  of  space  to  hang  large  ones. 
The  shirts  and  books  won't  last,  that's  all.  The 
solidity  of  the  products  of  our  factories  is  vanishing 
on  all  sides.  Thus  the  problem  to  be  solved  is  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  literature,  science  and 
politics.  One  day  in  Paris,  in  my  office,  there  was 
an  animated  discussion  as  to  the  ingredients  that 
are  used  in  the  manufacture  of  paper  in  China. 
There,  thanks  to  the  raw  materials,  paper-making 
has  from  the  very  beginning,  attained  a  perfection 
that  ours  lacks.  Much  was  said  about  Chinese 
paper,  which  is  much  superior  to  ours  by  reason  of 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  I73 

its  lightness  and  fineness,  for  those  valuable  qual- 
ities do  not  detract  from  its  strength ;  and,  however 
thin  it  may  be,  it  is  never  transparent.  A  very 
well-informed  proof-reader — at  Paris  you  find  emi- 
nent scholars  among  readers:  Fourier  and  Pierre 
Leroux  are  readers  for  Lachevardiere  at  this 
moment! — as  I  was  saying,  the  Comte  de  Saint- 
Simon,  temporarily  a  reader,  came  to  see  us  in  the 
midst  of  the  discussion.  He  told  us  that,  according 
to  Kempfer  and  Du  Halde,  the  broussonatia  furnished 
the  Chinese  with  the  raw  material  for  their  paper, 
which  is  entirely  a  vegetable  product,  like  our  own, 
by  the  way.  Another  reader  maintained  that 
Chinese  paper  was  made  principally  from  an 
animal  substance,  together  with  silk,  which  is  so 
abundant  in  China.  A  wager  was  made  in  my 
presence.  As  Messieurs  Didot  are  printers  to  the 
Institute,  the  dispute  was  naturally  submitted  to 
members  of  that  assembly  of  scholars.  Monsieur 
Marcel,  formerly  manager  of  the  imperial  printing- 
office,  who  was  agreed  upon  as  referee,  sent  the  two 
readers  to  Monsieur  l'Abbe  Grozier,  librarian  at  the 
Arsenal.  By  the  decision  of  Abbe  Grozier,  both 
readers  lost  their  stakes.  Chinese  paper  is  made 
neither  from  silk  nor  from  the  broussonatia ;  its 
pulp  is  made  from  the  pulverized  fibres  of  the  bam- 
boo. Abbe  Grozier  had  a  Chinese  book,  an  icono- 
graphic  as  well  as  technological  work,  in  which 
were  numerous  sketches  representing  the  manufac- 
ture of  paper  in  all  its  stages,  and  he  showed  us  piles 
of  bamboo  stalks  lying  in  a  corner  of  a  paper-factory 


174  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

drawn  with  great  skill.  When  Lucien  told  me 
that  your  father,  by  a  sort  of  intuition  peculiar  to 
men  of  talent,  had  conceived  a  method  of  replac- 
ing linen  rags  by  an  exceedingly  common  vegetable 
substance,  taken  directly  from  the  ground,  as  the 
Chinese  take  their  fibrous  stalks,  I  went  over  in  my 
mind  all  the  experiments  tried  by  my  predecessors, 
and  I  began  finally  to  study  the  question  seriously. 
The  bamboo  is  a  reed:  I  naturally  thought  of  the 
reeds  of  our  own  country.  The  labor  amounts  to 
nothing  in  China;  a  day's  work  is  worth  three 
sous;  so  the  Chinese  are  able  to  place  their  paper, 
as  soon  as  it  comes  from  the  form,  leaf  by  leaf  be- 
tween tables  of  heated  white  porcelain,  by  means 
of  which  they  press  it  and  give  it  the  gloss,  the 
toughness,  the  lightness  and  the  satiny  softness 
which  make  it  the  finest  paper  in  the  world.  Very 
good;  we  must  find  some  machine  to  do  the  work 
the  Chinese  do  by  hand.  Machinery  is  the  only 
solution  of  the  problem  of  producing  paper  at  the 
low  price  which  the  cheapness  of  labor  makes  pos- 
sible in  China.  If  we  can  succeed  in  making  paper 
of  similar  quality  to  the  Chinese,  at  a  low  price,  we 
shall  diminish  the  weight  and  thickness  of  books 
by  more  than  one-half.  A  bound  set  of  Voltaire's 
works,  which  weighs  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds, 
printed  on  our  glazed  paper,  will  weigh  less  than 
fifty  on  Chinese  paper.  And  that  will  certainly  be 
a  triumph.  The  necessary  space  for  libraries  will 
become  a  problem  more  and  more  difficult  of  solution 
at  a  time  when  the  general  contraction  of  men  and 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  175 

things  is  affecting  everything,  even  their  houses. 
In  Paris  the  great  mansions,  the  great  suites,  will 
be  demolished  sooner  or  later;  soon  there  will  be  no 
great  fortunes  to  harmonize  with  the  mammoth 
edifices  of  our  fathers.  What  a  disgrace  for  the 
times  we  live  in  to  make  books  that  will  not  last! 
Ten  years  hence  Holland  paper,  that  is  to  say, 
paper  made  of  linen  rags,  will  have  entirely  disap- 
peared. Now,  your  brother  has  told  me  your 
father's  idea  of  using  certain  fibrous  plants  in  mak- 
ing paper ;  so  you  see  that,  if  I  succeed,  you  will  be 
entitled  to—" 

At  that  moment  Lucien  accosted  his  sister  and 
interrupted  David's  generous  proposition. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  have  enjoyed  the 
evening,"  he  said,  "but  it's  been  a  cruel  one 
for  me." 

"My  poor  Lucien,  what  has  happened  to  you, 
then?"  said  Eve,  noticing  the  excitement  depicted 
on  her  brother's  face. 

The  angry  poet  described  his  suffering,  pouring 
into  those  loving  hearts  the  flood  of  thoughts  that 
assailed  him.  Eve  and  David  listened  in  silence, 
distressed  at  this  torrent  of  grief  which  revealed  as 
much  grandeur  as  weakness. 

"Monsieur  de  Bargeton,"  Lucien  concluded,  "is 
an  old  man  who  will  probably  be  carried  off  by  an 
attack  of  indigestion;  and  then  I  will  have  my  re- 
venge on  that  arrogant  set:  I  will  marry  Madame 
de  Bargeton!  I  read  in  her  eyes  to-night  afove  as 
great   as  my  own.     Yes,  she  felt  the   blows  that 


176  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

wounded  me;  she  soothed  my  suffering;  she  is  as 
great  and  noble  as  she  is  lovely  and  charming! 
No,  she  will  never  betray  me!" 

"Isn't  it  time  we  set  his  mind  at  rest  about  the 
future?"  David  whispered  to  Eve. 

Eve  silently  pressed  his  arm,  and  David,  under- 
standing her  thought,  hastened  to  tell  Lucien  of  the 
plans  he  had  formed.  The  two  lovers  were  as  full 
of  themselves  as  Lucien  was  full  of  himself;  so  that, 
in  their  eagerness  to  secure  his  approval  of  their 
happiness,  they  did  not  notice  the  gesture  of  surprise 
that  escaped  Madame  de  Bargeton's  lover  when  he 
learned  of  the  projected  marriage  of  his  sister  and 
David.  Lucien  was  dreaming  of  arranging  some 
great  match  for  his  sister  when  he  should  have  at- 
tained  some  lofty  position,  in  order  to  shore  up  his 
ambition  with  the  interest  of  some  powerful  family, 
and  he  was  in  despair  to  see  in  this  union  an  ad- 
ditional obstacle  to  his  success  in  society. 

"If  Madame  de  Bargeton  consents  to  become  Ma- 
dame de  Rubempre,  she  will  never  be  willing  to  be 
David  Sechard's  sister-in-law!" 

Such  was  the  exact  purport  of  the  thoughts  that 
tortured  Lucien's  heart. 

"Louise  is  right!  people  of  the  future  are  never 
understood  by  their  families,"  he  thought  bitterly. 

If  the  idea  of  this  union  had  been  presented  to  him 
at  a  time  when  he  had  not  just  killed  off  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton  in  his  mind's  eye,  it  would  probably 
have  called  forth  expressions  of  the  liveliest  satis- 
faction.    Upon  reflecting  on  his  present  plight  and 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  177 

on  the  probable  destiny  of  Eve  Chardon,  a  beauti- 
ful, penniless  girl,  he  would  have  looked  upon  the 
proposed  marriage  as  unhoped-for  good  fortune. 
But  he  was  living  in  one  of  those  golden  dreams  in 
which  young  men,  mounted  upon  ifs,  surmount  all 
obstacles.  He  fancied  himself  dominating  society; 
it  was  a  severe  blow  to  the  poet  to  fall  so  quickly 
into  the  sphere  of  reality. 

Eve  and  David  believed  that  their  brother  was 
silent  because  such  at  display  of  generosity  over- 
whelmed him.  To  those  two  noble  hearts,  silent 
approbation  proved  true  affection.  The  painter  be- 
gan to  describe  with  simple,  heartfelt  eloquence  the 
happiness  that  awaited  all  four  of  them.  Despite 
Eve's  exclamations,  he  furnished  his  first  floor  with 
the  extravagance  of  a  lover;  with  artless  sincerity, 
he  constructed  the  second  floor  for  Lucien  and  the 
apartments  over  the  lean-to  for  Madame  Chardon, 
toward  whom  he  proposed  to  display  all  the  affec- 
tionate solicitude  of  a  son.  In  short,  he  made  the 
whole  family  so  happy  and  his  brother  so  inde- 
pendent that  Lucien,  seduced  by  David's  voice  and 
by  Eve's  caresses,  as  they  walked  beneath  the 
trees  along  the  calm,  gleaming  Charente,  under  the 
starry  vault  of  heaven,  in  the  balmy  night  air,  for- 
got the  painful  crown  of  thorns  that  society  had 
pressed  down  upon  his  head.  At  last,  Monsieur  de 
Rubempre  knew  David  as  he  was.  His  mobile 
nature  soon  brought  him  back  to  the  pure,  hard- 
working, bourgeois  life  he  had  hitherto  led;  he  saw 
it  in  the  future  surrounded  with  comfort  and  free 
12 


178  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

from  care.  The  sounds  of  aristocratic  society  be- 
came fainter  and  fainter.  At  last,  when  he  reached 
the  pavements  of  L'Houmeau,  the  ambitious  youth 
pressed  his  brother's  hand  and  assented  to  the  union 
of  the  happy  lovers. 

"But  won't  your  father  oppose  the  marriage?" 
he  asked  David. 

"You  know  how  much  he  troubles  himself  about 
me!  the  goodman  lives  for  himself;  but  I  shall  go 
and  see  him  to-morrow  at  Marsac,  to  induce  him  to 
do  such  building  as  we  need,  if  for  no  other  purpose. " 

David  accompanied  the  brother  and  sister  to  Ma- 
dame Chardon's  room,  and  asked  her  for  Eve's  hand 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  man  to  whom  the  slightest 
delay  would  be  unbearable.  The  mother  took  her 
daughter's  hand  and  joyfully  placed  it  in  David's, 
whereupon  the  lover  made  bold  to  kiss  the  forehead 
of  his  fair  betrothed,  who  blushed  as  she  smiled 
upon  him. 

"Such  is  the  betrothal  of  poor  people,"  said  the 
mother,  raising  her  eyes  as  if  to  implore  God's 
blessing. — "You  must  have  courage,  my  child," 
she  said  to  David,  "for  we  are  most  unfortunate 
and  I  fear  our  ill-fortune  may  prove  to  be  con- 
tagious." 

"We  are  rich  and  fortunate,"  said  David  gravely. 
"First  of  all,  you  must  give  up  your  nursing  and 
come  and  live  at  Angouleme  with  your  daughter  and 
Lucien. " 

The  three  thereupon  hastened  to  tell  the  wonder- 
ing mother  of  their  delightful  project,  plunging  into 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  179 

one  of  the  unreserved  family  talks,  in  which  every 
seed  is  joyously  garnered,  every  pleasure  enjoyed 
in  anticipation.  They  were  obliged  to  turn  David 
out;  he  would  have  liked  that  evening  to  last  for- 
ever. The  clocks  were  striking  one  when  Lucien 
walked  with  his  future  brother-in-law  as  far  as  the 
Porte  Palet.  Honest  Postel,  much  concerned  about 
these  extraordinary  proceedings,  was  standing  be- 
hind his  blind;  he  had  opened  his  window,  and 
said  to  himself,  seeing  a  light  in  Eve's  room : 

"What  can  be  going  on  at  the  Chardons' ? — Ah! 
my  boy,"  he  said  as  Lucien  returned,  "what  in  the 
world  is  happening  to  you  all?  Do  you  need  my 
services?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  replied  the  poet,  "but,  as  you 
are  our  friend,  I  can  tell  you  about  it;  my  mother 
has  just  given  my  sister's  hand  to  David  Sechard. " 

Postel's  only  reply  was  to  close  his  window 
abruptly,  in  despair  because  he  had  not  himself 
asked  for  Mademoiselle  Chardon's  hand. 


Instead  of  returning  to  Angoul<§me,  David  took 
the  Marsac  road.  He  walked  all  the  way  to  his 
father's  house  and  reached  the  home  vineyard  just 
as  the  sun  was  rising.  The  lover  spied  the  old 
bear's  head  over  the  top  of  a  hedgerow  under  an 
almond-tree. 

"Good  morning,  father,"  said  David. 
"Hallo,  is  it  you,  my  boy!  How  do  you  happen 
to  be  on  the  road  at  this  time  of  day  ?  Come  in 
there,"  said  the  vine-grower,  pointing  to  a  gap  in 
the  hedge  where  there  was  a  small  gate.  "My  vines 
have  all  passed  the  flowering  stage  and  not  a  twig 
frozen!  There'll  be  more  than  twenty  casks  to  the 
acre  this  year;  but  how  it  was  manured!" 

"I  have  come  to  talk  about  some  important  busi- 
ness, father." 

"Well,  how  are  our  presses?  you  ought  to  have  a 
pile  of  money  as  big  as  yourself." 

"I  shall  make  money,  father,  but  just  now  I  am 
not  rich." 

"They  all  blame  me  here  for  manuring  to  death," 
rejoined  the  father.  "The  bourgeois,  that  is  to  say, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  Messieurs 
This  and  That,  maintain  that  I  injure  the  quality 
of  the  wine.  What's  the  use  of  education?  to  be- 
fog your  mind.  Hark  ye!  those  gentry  press  seven, 
sometimes  eight  casks  to  the  acre,  and  sell  at  sixty 

(iSi) 


1 82  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

francs  the  cask,  which  makes  four  hundred  francs 
an  acre  at  most.  I  press  twenty  casks  and  sell  at 
thirty  francs;  total  six  hundred  francs!  Who  are 
the  fools?  Quality!  quality!  What  do  I  care  for 
quality?  Let  messieurs  the  marquises  keep  their 
quality  for  themselves!  To  my  mind,  quality  is 
crowns.     You  were  saying?" 

"I  am  going  to  be  married,  father,  and  I  came  to 
ask  you — " 

"Ask    me?      What?    nothing    at   all,    my    boy. 
Marry  away,  I  give  my  consent;  but,  as  for  giving 
you  anything,  I  haven't  got  a  sou.     Taxes  have 
ruined  me!     For  two  years,  I've  been  paying  out 
money  for  manure,  taxes  and  expenses  of  every 
kind;    the   government  takes  everything;   all  the 
profits  go  to  the  government !     For  two  years  the 
poor  vine-growers  haven't  made  anything.      This 
year  don't  look  so  bad,  and  yet  my  wretched  casks 
are  worth  eleven  francs  to  begin  with!     We  shall 
harvest  our  grapes  for  the  cooper's  benefit.     Why 
do  you  get  married  before  the  grape-picking?" 
"I  only  came  to  ask  your  consent,  father." 
"Ah!  that's  another  affair.     May  I  ask,  without 
being  too  inquisitive,  whom  you  propose  to  marry  ?" 
"Mademoiselle  Eve  Chardon. " 
"What's  that?  how  much  is  she  worth?" 
"She's  the  daughter  of  the  late  Monsieur  Char- 
don, the  druggist  of  L'Houmeau." 

"You  marry  a  girl  from  L'Houmeau !  you,  a  bour- 
geois! you,  the  king's  printer  at  Angouleme! 
That's  the  result  of  education !     Send  your  children 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  183 

to  college  by  all  means!  Say,  my  boy,  is  she 
very  rich?"  said  the  old  vine-grower,  drawing  near 
his  son  with  a  wheedling  air;  "for,  if  you  marry  a 
girl  from  L'Houmeau,  she  ought  to  have  thousands 
and  hundreds!  Good!  you'll  pay  me  my  rent.  Do 
you  know,  my  boy,  that  there's  two  years  and  three 
months'  rent  due,  which  makes  twenty-seven  hun- 
dred francs,  and  they'd  come  in  handily  to  pay  my 
cooper.  From  any  other  than  my  son,  I  should 
have  a  right  to  demand  interest,  for  business  is 
business  after  all;  but  I'll  give  you  the  interest. 
Well,  how  much  has  she  got?" 

"Why,  she  has  just  what  my  mother  had." 

The  old  fellow  was  on  the  point  of  saying: 
"She's  only  got  ten  thousand  francs!"  but  he  re- 
membered having  refused  to  render  his  son  any 
account,  and  said : 

"She's  got  nothing!" 

"My  mother's  fortune  was  her  good  sense  and 
her  beauty." 

"Go  to  the  market  with  it  and  you'll  see  what 
they'll  lend  you  on  it.  Bless  my  soul,  how  unlucky 
fathers  are  with  their  children !  David,  when  I 
married  I  had  a  paper  cap  on  my  head  for  my  for- 
tune, and  I  had  my  two  arms;  I  was  only  a  poor 
bear;  but,  with  the  fine  printing  office  I  gave  you, 
with  your  industry  and  your  learning,  you  ought  to 
marry  a  bourgeoise  of  the  Upper  Town,  a  woman 
with  thirty  or  forty  thousand  francs.  Let  your 
passion  go,  and  I'll  find  a  wife  for  you  myself! 
There's  a  widow  of  thirty-two  within  a  league,  a 


184  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

miller,  with  a  hundred  thousand  francs  in  good  land ; 
she's  the  girl  for  you.  You  can  add  her  estate  to 
the  Marsac  property;  they  touch!  Oh!  the  fine 
estate  we'd  have,  and  how  I  would  manage  it! 
They  say  she's  going  to  marry  Courtois,  her  fore- 
man, and  you're  a  better  man  than  he  is!  I  would 
run  the  mill  while  she  was  showing  off  her  pretty 
arms  in  Angouleme." 

"I  am  bound,  father — " 

"David,  you  don't  understand  anything  about 
business,  and  I  can  see  that  you'll  soon  be  ruined. 
Yes,  if  you  marry  this  girl  from  L'Houmeau,  I'll 
settle  my  accounts  with  you,  I'll  sue  you  for  my 
rent,  for  I  don't  see  any  prospect  of  anything.  Ah! 
my  poor  presses !  my  presses !  it  takes  money  to 
oil  you  and  keep  you  in  repair  and  make  you  go. 
Nothing  but  a  good  wine  year  would  console  me  for 
this." 

"It  seems  to  me,  father,  that  I  have  caused  you 
very  little  trouble  hitherto — " 

"And  paid  very  little  rent,"  retorted  the  old  vine- 
grower. 

"I  came  to  ask  you,  in  addition  to  your  consent 
to  my  marriage,  to  have  the  second  floor  of  your 
house  raised  for  me,  and  to  build  an  apartment 
above  the  lean-to." 

"Not  likely;  I  haven't  a  sou,  as  you  know  very 
well.  Besides,  it  would  be  throwing  money  into 
the  water,  for  what  would  I  get  out  of  it?  Upon 
my  word!  you  get  up  early  in  the  morning  to  come 
and  ask  me  to  do  building  enough  to  ruin  a  king. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  185 

Although  your  name's  David,  I  haven't  the  treasures 
of  Solomon.  But  you're  mad!  My  child  was 
changed  by  his  nurse.  There's  a  vine  that  will 
bear  some  grapes!"  he  said,  interrupting  himself 
to  point  out  a  shoot  to  David.  "They  are  children 
that  don't  disappoint  their  parent's  hopes;  you 
manure  them  and  they  pay  you  back.  I  sent  you 
to  the  lyceum,  I  paid  enormous  sums  to  make  you 
a  scholar,  you  studied  with  the  Didots  and  the  re- 
sult of  all  that  nonsense  is  to  give  me  a  girl  from 
L'Houmeau  for  a  daughter-in-law,  without  a  sou 
of  dowry !  If  you  hadn't  gone  away  to  study,  if 
you'd  stayed  under  my  eyes,  you'd  have  done  as  I 
wanted  you  to,  and  you'd  be  marrying  to-day  a 
miller  with  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  not  counting 
the  mill.  Ah!  you  had  so  little  wit  as  to  think  I'd 
reward  you  for  this  fine  bit  of  sentiment  by  building 
palaces  for  you,  eh?  Why,  anyone  would  think,  upon 
my  word,  that  the  house  you  live  in  hadn't  sheltered 
anyone  but  pigs  for  two  hundred  years,  and  that 
it  isn't  good  enough  for  your  girl  from  L'Houmeau 
to  sleep  in.     Say,  is  she  the  Queen  of  France?" 

"Very  well,  father,  then  I'll  build  the  second  floor 
at  my  own  expense;  the  son  will  enrich  the  father. 
Although  that  reverses  the  natural  order  of  things, 
it's  sometimes  done — " 

"How's  that,  my  boy;  you  have  money  to  build 
with  and  none  to  pay  your  rent  ?  You  rascal,  you're 
playing  sharp  with  your  father!" 

The  question  thus  stated  became  difficult  of  solu- 
tion, for  the  goodman  was  enchanted  to  place  his 


1 86  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

son  in  a  position  which  justified  him  in  giving  him 
nothing,  while  maintaining  a  paternal  attitude. 
Thus  David  was  able  to  obtain  nothing  more  than 
a  bare  consent  to  his  marriage,  and  permission  to 
make  at  his  own  expense  such  additions  to  his 
father's  house  as  he  might  need.  The  old  bear, 
that  model  for  conservative  fathers,  did  his  son  the 
favor  not  to  demand  his  rent  and  not  to  take  from 
him  the  savings  whose  existence  he  was  so  impru- 
dent as  to  disclose.  David  returned  home  sorely 
depressed;  he  understood  that  he  could  not  rely 
upon  any  assistance  from  his  father  if  affairs  should 
turn  out  badly. 

All  Angoul£me  was  talking  about  the  bishop's 
remark  and  Madame  de  Bargeton's  reply.  The 
slightest  incidents  were  so  distorted,  exaggerated, 
embellished,  that  the  poet  became  the  hero  of  the 
hour. 

From  the  superior  sphere  in  which  this  tempest 
of  trifles  was  rumbling,  some  drops  fell  among  the 
bourgeoisie.  When  Lucien  passed  through  Beau- 
lieu  on  his  way  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's,  he  ob- 
served the  envious  scrutiny  that  several  young 
men  bestowed  upon  him,  and  caught  a  sentence 
here  and  there  that  made  him  flush  with  pride. 

"There's  a  lucky  fellow, "  said  a  solicitor's  clerk, 
named  Petit-Claud,  a  schoolmate  of  Lucien,  and  an 
ugly  youth,  whom  the  poet  treated  in  a  patronizing 
way. 

"Yes,    he's    good-looking,    he    has    talent,    and 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  1 87 

Madame  de  Bargeton  is  mad  over  him,"  replied 
a  young  man  of  good  family,  who  was  present  at 
the  reading. 

He  had  impatiently  awaited  the  hour  when  he 
knew  he  should  find  Louise  alone;  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  reconcile  this  woman,  the  arbiter  of  his 
destiny,  to  his  sister's  marriage.  After  the  experi- 
ence of  the  preceding  evening,  perhaps  she  would 
be  more  affectionate  than  usual,  and  if  so,  a 
moment  of  happiness  might  be  the  result.  He  was 
not  mistaken:  Madame  de  Bargeton  received  him 
with  an  effusion  of  sentiment  that  seemed  to  the 
novice  in  love  affairs  to  denote  a  most  impressive 
progress  in  passion.  She  abandoned  her  lovely 
golden  hair,  her  hands,  her  face  to  the  burning 
kisses  of  the  poet  who  had  suffered  so  much  the 
night  before! 

"If  you  had  seen  your  face  while  you  were 
reading!"  she  said,  continuing  to  use  the  second 
person  singular,  the  familiar,  caressing  form  of  ad- 
dress which  she  had  adopted  the  night  before  when 
they  sat  upon  the  couch  and  Louise  with  her  fair 
hand  wiped  away  the  drops  of  perspiration  that 
stood  like  pearls  upon  his  brow,  as  if  anticipating 
the  crown  she  would  place  upon  it.  "Your  lovely 
eyes  shot  fire!  1  saw,  coming  from  your  mouth, 
the  chains  of  gold  whereby  hearts  hang  suspended 
from  a  poet's  lips.  You  must  read  me  the  whole  of 
Chenier,  he  is  the  poet  of  lovers.  You  shall  suffer 
no  more,  I  will  not  have  it!  Yes,  dear  angel,  I  will 
make  an  oasis  for  you,  where  you  shall  live  your 


1 88  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

poet's  life,  active,  inactive,  indolent,  laborious, 
pensive  by  turns;  but  never  forget  that  your  laurels 
are  due  to  me,  that  they  will  be  the  noble  reward 
of  the  suffering  that  will  fall  to  my  lot.  Poor  love, 
those  people  will  spare  me  no  more  than  they  spared 
you;  they  take  revenge  for  all  the  joys  they  do  not 
share.  Yes,  I  shall  always  be  looked  upon  with 
jealousy;  didn't  you  see  it  yesterday?  Didn't  the 
blood-drinking  insects  fly  quickly  enough  to  drink 
from  the  stings  they  had  made  ?  But  I  was  happy ! 
I  lived!  It  was  so  long  since  all  the  chords  of  my 
heart  had  rung  full  and  clear!" 

Tears  rolled  down  Louise's  cheeks;  Lucien  seized 
one  hand  and  kissed  it  again  and  again  for  all  re- 
sponse. Thus  the  poet's  vanity  was  fondled 
by  this  woman  as  it  had  been  by  his  mother,  and 
sister,  and  by  David.  Everyone  about  him  con- 
tinued to  raise  higher  and  higher  the  imaginary 
pedestal  upon  which  he  placed  himself.  Upheld  in 
his  ambitious  hopes  by  one  and  all,  by  his  friends 
and  by  the  vain  rage  of  his  enemies,  he  walked 
in  an  atmosphere  full  of  mirages.  Youthful  imagi- 
nations so  naturally  become  accomplices  of  such 
flattery  and  such  ideas  as  these,  everybody  is  so 
eager  to  serve  a  handsome  young  man,  with  the 
future  all  his  own,  that  more  than  one  stern  and 
bitter  lesson  is  necessary  to  dispel  such  illusions. 

"Then  you  will  really  be  my  Beatrice,  my  lovely 
Louise,  but  a  Beatrice  who  allows  herself  to  be 
loved?" 

She  raised  her  fine  eyes,  which  she  had  kept  on 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  189 

the  floor,  and  said,  contradicting  her  words  by  an 
angelic  smile: 

"If  you  deserve  it — later!  Aren't  you  happy? 
To  have  a  heart  all  to  one's  self!  to  be  able  to  say 
anything  with  the  certainty  of  being  understood! 
is  not  that  happiness?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  with  the  pout  of  a  disap- 
pointed lover. 

"Child!"  she  said,  laughing  at  him.  "Come, 
haven't  you  anything  to  tell  me?  You  were  think- 
ing very  deeply  as  you  came  in,  my  Lucien. " 

Lucien  timidly  confided  to  his  beloved  the  story 
of  David's  love  for  his  sister,  his  sister's  love  for 
David,  and  their  projected  marriage. 

"Poor  Lucien!"  said  she;  "he  is  afraid  of  being 
beaten  and  scolded  as  if  he  were  going  to  be  married 
himself !  Why,  where's  the  harm  ?"  she  continued, 
running  her  hands  through  his  hair.  "What  do  I 
care  for  a  family,  in  which  you  are  an  exception  ? 
If  my  father  married  his  housekeeper,  would  you 
worry  very  much  about  it?  Dear  child,  lovers  are 
a  whole  family  in  themselves.  Have  I  any  other 
interest  in  the  world  than  my  Lucien?  Be  great, 
succeed  in  winning  renown,  that  is  all  that  con- 
cerns us!" 

Lucien  was  made  the  happiest  man  in  the  world 
by  that  selfish  reply.  While  he  was  listening  to 
the  absurd  arguments  by  which  Louise  proved  to 
him  that  they  were  alone  in  the  world,  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton  entered.  Lucien  frowned  and  seemed 
tongue-tied;  Louise  made  a  sign  to  him  and  begged 


IQO  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

him  to  stay  and  dine  with  them,  asking  him  to  read 
Chenier  to  her  until  the  card  players  and  regular 
guests  arrived. 

"You  will  not  only  please  her,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton,  "but  myself  as  well.  Nothing  suits  me 
better  than  to  listen  to  reading  after  my  dinner." 

Petted  by  Monsieur  de  Bargeton,  petted  by  Louise, 
waited  upon  by  the  servants  with  the  respect  they 
show  for  their  masters'  favored  guests,  Lucien  re- 
mained at  the  Hotel  de  Bargeton,  identifying  him- 
self with  all  the  pleasures  of  a  fortune,  the  usufruct 
of  which  was  turned  over  to  him.  When  the  salon 
was  filled  with  people,  he  felt  so  strong  in  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton's  stupidity  and  Louise's  love,  that  he 
assumed  an  air  of  authority  which  his  fair  mistress 
encouraged.  He  tasted  the  joys  of  the  despotism 
won  by  Nais,  which  she  loved  to  have  him  share 
with  her.  In  short,  he  attempted  throughout  that 
evening  to  play  the  part  of  the  hero  of  a  small  town. 
Observing  Lucien's  latest  attitude,  some  persons 
concluded  that  he  was,  to  use  an  old-time  expression, 
on  the  best  possible  terms  with  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton. Amelie,  who  came  with  Monsieur  du  Chatelet, 
asserted  the  truth  of  that  dire  rumor  in  a  corner  of 
the  salon,  where  the  envious  and  jealous  guests  had 
collected. 

"Don't  hold  Nais  responsible  for  the  vanity  of  a 
paltry  youth  who  is  all  puffed  up  with  pride  to  find 
himself  in  a  social  sphere  he  never  expected  to 
reach,"  said  Chatelet.  "Don't  you  see  that  this 
Chardon  takes  the  courteous  phrases  of  a  woman  of 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  191 

the  world  for  advances?  He  hasn't  yet  learned  to 
distinguish  the  silence  of  genuine  passion  from  the 
patronizing  language  his  beauty,  his  youth  and  his 
talent  call  forth !  Women  would  be  too  much  to  be 
pitied,  if  they  were  guilty  of  all  the  desires  they 
arouse  in  us.  He  is  certainly  in  love,  but  as  for 
Nais— " 

''Oh!"  rejoined  the  perfidious  Amelie,  "Nais  is 
very  happy  in  his  passion.  At  her  age,  a  young 
man's  love  presents  so  many  fascinations!  She 
renews  her  youth  with  him,  she  fancies  herself  a 
young  girl,  and  assumes  a  young  girl's  manners 
and  scruples,  and  doesn't  think  of  the  absurdity  of 
it.  Fancy !  a  druggist's  son  putting  on  the  airs  of 
a  master  in  Madame  de  Bargeton's  salon!" 

"Love  knows  naught  of  those  distances,"  hummed 
Adrien. 

The  next  day  there  was  not  a  single  house  in  An- 
gouleme  in  which  people  were  not  discussing  the 
degree  of  intimacy  between  Monsieur  Chardon,  alias 
De  Rubempre,  and  Madame  de  Bargeton;  although 
guilty  of  nothing  more  than  a  few  kisses,  society 
was  already  accusing  them  of  the  most  criminal 
happiness.  Madame  de  Bargeton  had  to  bear  the 
cross  of  her  royalty.  Among  the  eccentricities  of 
society,  have  you  not  noticed  the  caprice  of  its 
judgments  and  the  folly  of  its  demands?  There  are 
people  to  whom  everything  is  permitted;  they  can 
do  the  most  unreasonable  things;  from  them,  every- 
thing is  as  it  should  be;  everyone  is  eager  to  justify 
their  acts.     But  there  are  others  to  whom  society  is 


192  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

incredibly  harsh:  they  must  do  everything  right, 
never  make  a  mistake,  never  fall  short,  never  do 
even  a  foolish  thing;  you  would  say  that  they  were 
statues  of  wonderful  beauty,  which  are  taken  from 
their  pedestals  as  soon  as  the  winter  weather  has 
cracked  a  finger  or  a  nose;  they  are  not  allowed  to 
be  simply  human,  they  are  required  to  be  always 
divine  and  perfect.  A  single  glance  from  Madame 
de  Bargeton  to  Lucien  was  more  severely  censured 
than  the  whole  twelve  years'  happiness  of  Zizine 
and  Francis.  A  pressure  of  the  hand  exchanged  by 
the  two  lovers  was  about  to  draw  down  upon  them 
all  the  thunders  of  the  Charente. 

David  had  brought  back  from  Paris  a  little  hoard 
which  he  intended  for  the  necessary  expenses  of  his 
marriage  and  for  building  the  second  floor  of  his 
father's  house.  To  add  to  the  value  of  the  house 
was  really  equivalent  to  working  in  his  own  interest ; 
sooner  or  later,  it  would  revert  to  him,  for  his  father 
was  seventy-eight.  So  he  built  Lucien's  apartment 
with  a  colonnade,  in  order  not  to  overburden  the 
old  cracked  walls  of  the  house.  He  took  great 
pleasure  in  decorating  and  furnishing  attractively 
the  first  floor,  where  the  fair  Eve  was  to  pass  her 
life.  Those  were  days  of  unalloyed  joy  and  happi- 
ness for  the  two  lovers. 

Although  weary  of  the  pitiful  proportions  of  pro- 
vincial life,  and  disgusted  with  the  sordid  economy 
that  magnified  a  hundred-sou  piece  into  an  enormous 
sum  of  money,  Lucien  bore  without  a  murmur  the 
necessarily  close   calculations   of  poverty  and   its 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  193 

deprivations.  His  gloomy  melancholy  had  given 
place  to  a  radiant  expression  of  hope.  He  saw  a 
bright  star  shining  over  his  head;  he  dreamed  of  a 
glorious  future,  basing  his  happiness  upon  the  tomb 
of  Monsieur  de  Bargeton,  who  had  from  time  to 
time  sharp  attacks  of  indigestion  and  the  agreeable 
mania  of  regarding  the  failure  of  his  dinner  to  digest 
as  a  disease  to  be  cured  by  eating  a  hearty  supper. 
Toward  the  beginning  of  September,  Lucien  was 
no  longer  a  proof-reader;  he  was  Monsieur  de  Ru- 
bempre,  living  in  magnificent  quarters,  compared 
with  the  wretched  attic  in  which  young  Chardon 
lived  at  L'Houmeau;  he  was  no  longer  a  man  from 
L'Houmeau,  for  he  lived  in  Upper  Angoule'me,  and 
dined  about  four  times  a  week  with  Madame  de 
Bargeton.  Having  won  the  friendly  regard  of  mon- 
seigneur,  he  was  received  at  the  episcopal  palace. 
His  occupations  entitled  him  to  a  place  in  the  most 
exalted  society.  In  a  word,  he  was  likely  to  take 
rank  some  day  among  the  eminent  men  of  France. 
Certainly,  as  he  cast  his  eye  about  a  pretty  salon, 
a  charming  bedroom,  and  a  tastefully  decorated 
study,  he  could  console  himself  for  taking  thirty 
francs  a  month  from  the  hard-earned  wages  of  his 
mother  and  sister;  for  the  day  was  in  sight  when 
the  historical  romance  upon  which  he  had  been  at 
work  two  years,  U  Archer  de  Charles  IX. ,  and  a  vol- 
ume of  poems  entitled  Les  Marguerites,  would  make 
his  name  known  in  the  literary  world,  giving  him 
enough  money  to  discharge  his  debt  to  his  mother 
and  sister  and  David.  And  so,  feeling  that  he  had 
13 


IQ4  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

grown  in  stature,  listening  to  the  reverberating 
echoes  of  his  name  in  the  future,  he  accepted  those 
sacrifices  now  with  noble  self-confidence:  he  smiled 
at  his  past  distress,  he  enjoyed  his  recent  poverty. 
Eve  and  David  had  put  their  brother's  happiness 
before  their  own.  The  marriage  was  postponed 
because  the  workmen  needed  further  time  to  finish 
the  furnishing  and  painting  and  to  hang  the  papers 
intended  for  the  first  floor,  for  Lucien's  affairs  took 
precedence.  No  one  who  knew  Lucien  would  be 
surprised  at  their  devotion;  he  was  so  fascinating! 
his  manners  were  so  coaxing!  his  impatience  and 
his  desires  were  expressed  so  charmingly!  he  had 
always  won  his  case  before  he  opened  his  mouth. 
This  fatal  privilege  ruins  more  young  men  than  it 
saves.  Accustomed  to  the  attentions  that  youthful 
beauty  provokes,  happy  in  the  selfish  patronage 
society  accords  a  person  who  takes  its  fancy,  just  as 
it  gives  alms  to  the  beggar  who  awakens  a  senti- 
ment or  causes  a  thrill  of  emotion,  many  of  these 
great  children  simply  enjoy  this  favor  instead  of 
trying  to  exploit  it.  Deceived  as  to  the  meaning 
and  motive  power  of  social  relations,  they  believe 
that  they  will  always  meet  deceitful  smiles;  but 
there  comes  a  time  when  society  leaves  them,  like 
old  coquettes  and  old  rags,  naked,  bald,  stripped 
bare,  worthless  and  penniless,  outside  the  door  of  a 
salon  or  begging  alms  at  a  street  corner.  Eve  de- 
sired the  delay,  however,  as  she  wished  to  make  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  managing  her  little 
household   economically.     What  could   two  lovers 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  195 

refuse  a  brother  who,  seeing  his  sister  at  work, 
said  with  an  accent  that  came  from  his  heart:  "I 
wish  I  knew  how  to  sew?"  And  then,  too,  the 
grave  and  observant  David  was  an  accessory  to  this 
devotion.  Nevertheless,  since  Lucien's  triumph  at 
Madame  de  Bargeton's,  he  was  alarmed  by  the 
transformation  that  was  taking  place  in  him;  he 
was  afraid  that  he  would  soon  begin  to  feel  contempt 
for  bourgeois  customs.  With  the  purpose  of  testing 
his  brother,  David  sometimes  forced  him  to  choose 
between  patriarchal  family  joys  and  the  pleasures 
of  aristocratic  society,  and  when  he  saw  that  Lucien 
sacrificed  his  vain  pleasures  to  them,  he  cried: 
"They  will  never  corrupt  him!" 

Several  times  the  three  friends  and  Madame 
Chardon  indulged  in  little  pleasure  trips  of  the 
familiar  provincial  variety;  they  would  walk 
through  the  woods  near  Angouleme  along  the  bank 
of  the  Charente ;  they  would  dine  on  the  grass, 
David's  apprentice  bringing  the  provisions  to  a  cer- 
tain spot  at  a  time  agreed  upon ;  then  they  would 
return  in  the  evening,  a  little  tired,  having  spent 
less  than  three  francs.  On  great  occasions,  when 
they  dined  at  what  is  called  a  restanrat,  a  sort  of 
open  air  restaurant  midway  between  the  provincial 
bouchon  and  the  Parisian guinguette,  they  sometimes 
spent  as  much  as  a  hundred  sous,  divided  between 
David  and  the  Chardons.  David  was  infinitely 
grateful  to  Lucien  for  forgetting,  during  those  days 
in  the  open  air,  the  satisfaction  that  he  derived 
from    being    at    Madame    de    Bargeton's   and   the 


196  lost  illusions 

sumptuous  dinners  of  society.  For  at  this  time 
every  one  was  anxious  to  entertain  the  great  man 
of  Angouleme. 

At  this  juncture,  when  everything  was  almost 
ready  for  the  young  couple  to  begin  housekeeping, 
during  a  call  David  made  at  Marsac  to  obtain  his 
father's  consent  to  be  present  at  his  wedding,  hop- 
ing that  the  goodman  would  be  so  far  fascinated  by 
his  daughter-in-law  as  to  contribute  to  the  enormous 
expenditures  made  necessary  by  the  rearrangement 
of  the  house,  one  of  those  events  occurred  which, 
in  a  small  town,  entirely  change  the  face  of  affairs. 

Lucien  and  Louise  had  in  Chatelet  a  spy  in 
their  innermost  circle  of  friends,  who  watched,  with 
the  persistence  of  hatred  made  up  of  passion  and 
avarice  combined,  for  an  opportunity  to  bring  dis- 
covery. Sixte  desired  to  force  Madame  de  Bargeton 
to  declare  herself  so  unequivocally  on  Lucien's  side 
that  she  would  be  what  is  called  lost  He  had 
adopted  the  attitude  of  a  humble  confidant  of  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton;  but,  if  he  admired  Lucien  on 
Rue  du  Minage,  he  made  short  work  of  him  every- 
where else.  He  had  insensibly  acquired  the  right 
to  call  upon  Nai's  at  all  times,  and  she  no  longer 
suspected  her  old  adorer;  but  he  had  taken  too 
much  for  granted  in  the  case  of  the  lovers,  whose 
love  continued  to  be  strictly  platonic,  to  the  great 
despair  of  Louise  and  of  Lucien.  There  are,  in 
fact,  passions  which  start  off  well  or  ill,  as  the 
parties  to  them  choose.  Two  persons  plunge  into 
the  tactical  part  of  sentiment,  talk  instead  of  acting, 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  197 

and  fight  in  the  open  fields  instead  of  beginning  a 
siege.  In  this  way,  they  often  surfeit  themselves 
by  wearing  out  their  desires  in  the  void  in  which 
they  live.  Two  lovers  at  such  times  give  each 
other  time  to  reflect,  to  pass  judgment  upon  each 
other.  It  often  happens  that  passions  which  have 
taken  the  field  with  heads  erect  and  colors  flying, 
hot  to  overcome  all  obstacles,  return  home  beaten, 
shamefaced,  disarmed,  besotted  with  their  vain 
parade.  Such  fatalities  are  sometimes  to  be  ex- 
plained by  the  timidity  of  youth  and  the  temporiz- 
ing methods  in  which  women  who  are  just  begin- 
ning their  career  take  pleasure;  for  this  mutual 
deception  never  happens  to  coxcombs  who  know 
the  trade,  or  to  coquettes  who  are  used  to  the 
manoeuvres  of  passion. 

Moreover,  provincial  life  is  peculiarly  opposed  to 
contented  love  and  rather  favors  the  intellectual 
disputes  of  passion ;  so  also  the  obstacles  it  offers  to 
the  sweet  intercourse  that  binds  lovers  so  closely, 
tend  to  drive  ardent  hearts  to  extreme  courses. 
This  life  is  based  upon  such  minute  espionage,  upon 
such  complete  knowledge  of  everything  that  takes 
place  in  every  family,  it  is  so  opposed  to  the  in- 
timacy that  gives  comfort  without  offending  virtue, 
the  purest  relations  are  so  unreasonably  calumni- 
ated, that  many  women  are  smirched,  despite  their 
innocence.  Certain  ones  thereupon  revile  them- 
selves for  not  having  tasted  all  the  joys  of  a  sin  of 
which  they  suffer  all  the  inconveniences.  Society, 
which    blames   or   criticizes   without   any   serious 


198  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

scrutiny  the  visible  facts  in  which  long,  secret 
struggles  end,  is  thus  primarily  accessory  to  these 
explosions;  but  the  majority  of  the  people  who  in- 
veigh against  the  alleged  scandal  caused  by  some 
women  who  are  wrongfully  accused,  have  never 
reflected  upon  the  causes  which  finally  lead  them  to 
take  the  course  they  do.  Madame  de  Bargeton  was 
about  to  find  herself  in  that  anomalous  position  in 
which  many  women  have  found  themselves  who 
have  not  gone  astray  until  after  they  were  unjustly 
accused. 

At  the  outset  of  a  passion,  the  obstacles  that 
arise  alarm  inexperienced  persons;  and  those  en- 
countered by  our  two  lovers  strongly  resembled  the 
bonds  with  which  the  Lilliputians  bound  Gulliver. 
There  was  a  multiplicity  of  nothings  which  made 
any  sort  of  movement  impossible  and  nullified  the 
most  vehement  desires.  For  instance,  Madame  de 
Bargeton  must  always  be  visible.  If  she  had  closed 
her  door  when  Lucien  was  with  her,  it  would  have 
been  the  end  of  everything,  and  she  might  as  well 
have  eloped  with  him  at  once.  She  received  him, 
to  be  sure,  in  the  boudoir,  to  which  he  was  so  ac- 
customed that  he  fancied  himself  master  there;  but 
the  doors  were  always  conscientiously  left  open. 
Everything  was  as  proper  as  could  be.  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton  walked  about  the  house  like  a  cock- 
chafer, never  dreaming  that  his  wife  wished  to  be 
alone  with  Lucien.  If  he  had  been  the  only  ob- 
stacle, Na'is  would  very  soon  have  found  a  way  to 
dismiss  him  or  give  him  something  to  do;  but  she 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  199 

was  overrun  with  visitors,  and  they  were  the  more 
numerous  because  of  the  prevalent  curiosity.  Pro- 
vincials are  naturally  of  a  teasing  disposition,  they 
love  to  annoy  budding  passions.  The  servants 
went  here  and  there  about  the  house,  unsummoned 
and  giving  no  notice  of  their  approach, — a  result  of 
long-continued  habit,  which  a  woman  who  had 
nothing  to  conceal  had  allowed  them  to  adopt.  To 
change  the  interior  economy  of  her  household 
would  have  been  to  confess  the  love  all  Angouleme 
suspected. 

Madame  de  Bargeton  could  not  put  her  foot  out  of 
doors  without  the  whole  town  knowing  where  she 
went.  To  walk  alone  with  Lucien  out  of  the  town 
would  have  been  a  fatal  step:  it  would  have  been 
less  dangerous  to  shut  herself  up  with  him  at  home. 
If  Lucien  had  remained  at  her  house  after  midnight, 
when  there  was  no  other  company,  it  would  have 
been  talked  about  the  next  day.  Thus,  within  as 
well  as  without,  Madame  de  Bargeton  lived  always 
in  the  public  eye.  These  details  will  apply  to 
provincial  life  as  a  whole;  sins  are  either  openly 
avowed  or  impossible. 

Louise,  like  all  women  who  act  under  the  impulse 
of  a  passion  without  previous  similar  experience, 
realized  one  by  one  the  difficulties  of  her  position, 
and  she  was  fairly  terrified.  Her  alarm  reacted 
upon  the  amorous  discussions  which  occupy  the 
happiest  hours,  when  two  lovers  are  alone.  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  had  no  estate  to  which  she  could 
take  her  dear  poet,  as  some  women  do  who,  under 


200  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

one  or  another  skilfully  devised  pretext,  go  and 
bury  themselves  in  the  country.  Wearied  with 
living  in  public,  driven  to  extremities  by  this 
tyranny  whose  yoke  was  harsher  than  her  pleasures 
were  sweet,  she  thought  of  Escarbas  and  contem- 
plated going  thither  to  see  her  old  father,  so  dis- 
turbed was  she  by  these  wretched  obstacles. 

Chatelet  did  not  believe  in  so  much  innocence. 
He  watched  to  see  when  Lucien  called  at  Madame 
de  Bargeton's  and  appeared  there  himself  a  few 
moments  later,  always  accompanied  by  Monsieur 
de  Chandour,  the  most  talkative  person  in  the  whole 
clique,  always  allowing  him  to  enter  first,  persist- 
ing in  the  hope  that  chance  would  enable  them  to 
surprise  the  lovers.  The  part  he  had  undertaken 
and  the  success  of  his  plan  were  the  more  diffi- 
cult, because  he  must  remain  neutral,  in  order  to 
direct  all  the  actors  in  the  drama  he  desired  to  have 
played.  Thus,  in  order  to  allay  the  suspicions  of 
Lucien,  whom  he  constantly  flattered,  and  of  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton,  who  did  not  lack  perspicacity, 
he  had,  to  keep  himself  in  countenance,  attached 
himself  to  the  jealous  Amelie.  To  perfect  his  sys- 
tem of  espionage  upon  Lucien  and  Louise,  he  had 
succeeded  some  days  before  in  starting  a  contro- 
versy between  himself  and  Monsieur  de  Chandour 
on  the  subject  of  the  lovers.  Chatelet  maintained 
that  Madame  de  Bargeton  was  making  sport  of  Lu- 
cien, that  she  was  too  well-born,  too  proud,  to  stoop 
to  a  druggist's  son.  This  role  of  incredulity  suited 
the  plan  he  had  formed,  for  he  desired  to  pose  as 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  201 

Madame  de  Bargeton's  defender.  Stanislas  main- 
tained that  Lucien  was  not  a  baffled  lover.  Amelie 
spurred  on  the  discussion  by  desiring  to  ascertain 
the  truth.  Each  of  the  two  gave  his  reasons.  It 
often  happened,  as  it  will  in  small  towns,  that  some 
habitues  of  the  Chandour  salon  arrived  in  the  midst 
of  a  conversation  in  which  Chatelet  and  Chandour 
were  fortifying  their  respective  opinions  with  sage 
observations.  It  would  have  been  very  strange  if 
each  of  the  adversaries  had  not  sought  partisans, 
asking  his  neighbor:  "What  do  you  think  about 
it?"  This  controversy  kept  Madame  de  Bargeton 
and  Lucien  constantly  in  evidence. 

At  last  one  day  Chatelet  remarked  that,  whenever 
he  and  Monsieur  de  Chandour  went  to  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  while  Lucien  was  there,  they  failed  to 
discover  any  indication  of  improper  relations:  the 
door  of  the  boudoir  was  always  open,  the  servants 
going  and  coming,  there  was  no  air  of  mystery  that 
pointed  to  the  charming  crimes  of  love,  etc.  Stan- 
islas, who  did  not  lack  a  considerable  share  of  stu- 
pidity, promised  to  enter  the  house  the  next  day 
on  tiptoe,  a  determination  in  which  he  was  encour- 
aged by  the  perfidious  Amelie. 

The  next  day  proved  to  be  for  Lucien  one  of  the 
days  when  young  men  tear  their  hair  and  take  an 
oath  to  themselves  that  they  will  no  longer  ply  the 
absurd  trade  of  sighing  swain.  He  had  become 
accustomed  to  his  position.  The  poet,  who  had 
taken  a  chair  so  timidly  in  the  sanctified  boudoir  of 
the  Queen  of  Angouleme,  was  metamorphosed  into 


202  LOST    ILLUSIONS 


an  exacting  lover.  Six  months  had  sufficed  to  make 
him  think  himself  Louise's  equal,  and  he  proposed 
now  to  become  her  master.  He  left  his  own  home, 
determined  to  be  very  unreasonable,  to  put  his  life 
at  stake,  to  employ  all  the  resources  of  impassioned 
eloquence,  to  say  that  he  was  losing  his  mind, 
that  he  was  incapable  of  thinking  or  of  writing  a 
line. 

Certain  women  have  a  horror  of  doing  things 
deliberately  which  does  honor  to  their  delicacy; 
they  like  to  yield  to  sudden  excitement  and  not  with 
premeditation.  Generally  speaking,  no  one  cares 
for  a  pleasure  that  is  forced  upon  him.  Madame  de 
Bargeton  noticed  upon  Lucien's  forehead,  in  his 
eyes,  in  his  whole  face  and  in  his  manner  that  air 
of  excitement  which  betrays  a  resolution  already 
formed;  she  determined  to  defeat  it,  partly  through 
a  spirit  of  contradiction,  but  also  through  a  noble 
interpretation  of  the  word  love.  Being  a  woman 
made  up  of  exaggerations,  she  exaggerated  the  value 
of  her  own  person.  In  his  eyes  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton  was  a  sovereign,  a  Beatrice,  a  Laura.  She 
took  her  seat,  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  beneath  the 
raised  canopy  of  the  literary  tournament,  and  Lu- 
cien  was  sure  of  winning  her  after  several  victories ; 
he  had  to  efface  the  memory  of  the  sublime  child,  of 
Lamartine,  of  Walter  Scott  and  of  Byron.  The 
noble  creature  deemed  her  love  a  generous  senti- 
ment; the  desires  she  aroused  in  Lucien  would  be 
a  source  of  glory  to  him.  This  feminine  Don 
Quixotism  is  a  sentiment  which  imparts  to  love  a 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  203 

consecration  of  respectability;  it  utilizes  it,  mag- 
nifies it,  honors  it.  Persisting  in  her  determination 
to  play  the  part  of  Dulcinea  in  Lucien's  life  for 
seven  or  eight  years,  Madame  de  Bargeton,  like 
many  provincials,  proposed  to  make  him  purchase 
her  person  by  a  sort  of  serfdom,  by  a  period  of 
constant  devotion  which  would  enable  her  to  judge 
him. 

When  Lucien  had  opened  the  battle  with  one  of 
those  exhibitions  of  sulkiness  at  which  women  laugh 
who  are  themselves  heart-free,  and  which  grieve 
only  those  who  love,  Louise  assumed  a  dignified  air 
and  began  one  of  her  long  speeches  interlarded  with 
pompous  words. 

"Is  this  what  you  have  promised  me,  Lucien?" 
she  concluded.  "Do  not  sow  in  this  delicious  pres- 
ent the  seeds  of  remorse  which  would  poison  my 
life  hereafter.  Do  not  ruin  the  future!  and — I  say 
it  with  pride — do  not  ruin  the  present!  Have  you 
not  my  whole  heart?  What  more  must  you  have? 
Can  your  love  submit  to  be  influenced  by  the 
senses,  while  a  beloved  woman's  noblest  privilege 
is  to  impose  silence  upon  them  ?  For  whom  do  you 
take  me,  pray?  am  I  no  longer  your  Beatrice?  If  I 
am  nothing  more  to  you  than  a  woman,  then  I  am 
less  than  a  woman." 

"You  would  say  nothing  different  to  a  man  you 
did  not  love,"  cried  Lucien  frantically. 

"If  you  do  not  feel  all  the  genuine  affection  there 
is  in  my  ideas,  you  will  never  be  worthy  of  me." 

"You  cast  a  doubt  upon  my  love  in  order  to  evade 


204  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

a  reply,"  said  Lucien,  throwjng  himself  at  her  feet 
and  weeping. 

The  poor  boy  wept  in  all  seriousness  when  he 
saw  that  he  was  to  be  kept  so  long  at  the  gates  of 
paradise.  They  were  the  tears  of  the  poet  who 
deems  himself  humbled  in  his  might,  the  tears  of  a 
child  in  despair  at  being  refused  the  toy  he  wants. 

"You  have  never  loved  me!"  he  cried. 

"You  do  not  believe  what  you  say,"  she  replied, 
flattered  by  his  violence. 

"Then  prove  to  me  that  you  are  mine,"  said 
Lucien  mildly. 

At  that  moment  Stanislas  arrived,  unheard,  saw 
Lucien  half  prostrate,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and 
his  head  against  Louise's  knees.  Satisfied  with 
that  abundantly  suspicious  tableau,  Stanislas 
abruptly  retired  upon  Chatelet,  who  was  standing 
at  the  door  of  the  salon.  Madame  de  Bargeton 
darted  from  the  boudoir  into  the  salon,  but  did  not 
catch  the  two  spies,  who  had  hurriedly  withdrawn 
like  intruders. 

"Who  has  been  here?"  she  asked  her  people. 

"Messieurs  de  Chandour  and  du  Chatelet,"  re- 
plied Gentil,  her  old  footman. 

She  returned  to  her  boudoir,  pale  and  trembling. 

"If  they  saw  you  thus,  I  am  lost,"  she  said  to 
Lucien. 

"So  much  the  better !"  cried  the  poet. 

She  smiled  at  this  outcry  of  selfishness  overflow- 
ing with  love. 


MME.  BE  BARGETON'S  BOUDOIR 


"Then  prove  to  me  that  you  are  mine,"  said 
Lucien,  mildly. 

At  that  moment  Stanislas  arrived,  unheard,  saw 
Lucien  half  prostrate,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  his 
head  against  Loirisc's  knees.  Satisfied  with  that 
abundantly  suspicious  tableau,  Stanislas  abruptly  re- 
tired upon  Chdtelet,  who  was  standing  at  the  door 
of  the  salon. 


rtOlsJT  «  _r\0HJE4 


In  the  provinces  such  episodes  are  magnified  by 
the  way  in  which  they  are  described.  In  a  moment 
everyone  knew  that  Lucien  had  been  surprised  at 
Nais's  knees.  Monsieur  de  Chandour,  delighted 
with  the  importance  the  affair  conferred  upon  him, 
went  first  of  all  to  the  club  to  tell  of  the  great  event, 
and  then  from  house  to  house.  Chatelet  made  haste 
to  announce  everywhere  that  he  had  seen  nothing; 
but,  by  thus  putting  himself  outside  the  fact,  he 
excited  Stanislas  to  talk  and  to  embellish  the  de- 
tails; and  Stanislas,  considering  himself  exceed- 
ingly clever,  added  something  new  at  every 
repetition.  In  the  evening,  the  aristocratic  society 
filled  Amelie's  salon  to  overflowing;  for,  when 
evening  came,  the  most  exaggerated  versions  of  the 
story  were  circulating  through  Angoul£me,  where 
every  narrator  had  imitated  Stanislas.  Men  and 
women  alike  were  impatient  to  know  the  truth. 
The  women  who  veiled  their  faces,  crying  scandal 
loudest  of  all,  were  Amelie,  Zephirine,  Fifine  and 
Lolotte,  all  of  whom  were  more  or  less  burdened 
with  illicit  joys.  The  cruel  theme  was  played 
with  variations  in  every  key. 

"Well,"  said  one,  "you've  heard  about  poor 
Nais,  I  suppose?  For  my  part  I  don't  believe  it; 
she  has  a  whole  irreproachable  life  before  her;  she's 
much  too  proud  to  be  anything  more  than  Monsieur 

(205) 


206  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

Chardon's  patroness.  But,  if  it  is  true,  I  pity  her 
with  all  my  heart." 

"She's  the  more  to  be  pitied  because  she's  mak- 
ing herself  so  frightfully  ridiculous;  for  she's  old 
enough  to  be  Monsieur  Lulu's  mother,  as  Jacques 
called  him.  The  poetaster  is  twenty-two  at  most, 
and  Nais,  between  ourselves,  will  never  see  forty 
again." 

"To  my  mind,"  said  Chatelet,  "Monsieur  de 
Rubempre's  position  is  in  itself  a  proof  of  Nais's 
innocence.  A  man  doesn't  go  on  his  knees  to  ask 
for  what  he's  already  had." 

"That  depends!"  said  Francis,  with  a  waggish 
air  that  called  forth  a  disapproving  glance  from  Ze- 
phirine. 

"Do,  pray,  tell  us  all  about  it,"  they  said  to 
Stanislas,  organizing  a  secret  conclave  in  a  corner 
of  the  salon. 

Stanislas  had  ended  by  composing  a  little  tale  full 
of  improprieties,  and  accompanied  it  with  gestures 
and  poses  which  threw  a  prodigiously  bad  light 
upon  the  affair. 

"It's  incredible!"  they  said. 

"At  noon!"  said  one. 

"Nais  is  the  last  one  I  should  have  suspected." 

"What  will  she  do?" 

And  then  the  endless  comments  and  conjectures! 
— Du  Chatelet  defended  Madame  de  Bargeton ;  but 
he  defended  her  so  bunglingly  that  he  fanned  the 
flame  of  gossip  instead  of  extinguishing  it.  Lili,  in 
despair    at  the  fall  of   the  loveliest  angel   in  the 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  207 

Angoumois  Olympas,  went,  bathed  in  tears,  to 
cry  the  news  at  the  bishop's  palace.  When  it  was 
certain  that  the  entire  town  was  in  a  ferment,  the 
delighted  Chatelet  went  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's, 
where  there  was,  alas!  but  a  single  whist  table. 
He  diplomatically  asked  Louise  to  grant  him  an 
interview  in  her  boudoir.  They  sat  down  together 
on  the  little  couch. 

"You  know,  doubtless,"  said  Chatelet  in  an 
undertone,  "what  all  Angouleme  is  talking  about?" 

"No,"  said  she. 

"Well,"  he  rejoined,  "I  am  too  good  a  friend  of 
yours  to  leave  you  in  ignorance.  Indeed,  it  is  my 
duty  to  place  you  in  a  position  to  put  an  end  to  the 
calumnies,  invented  doubtless  by  Amelie,  who  has 
the  presumption  to  consider  herself  your  rival.  I 
came  to  see  you  this  morning  with  that  monkey, 
Stanislas,  who  was  a  few  steps  ahead  of  me;  when 
he  got  as  far  as  there,"  he  continued,  pointing  to 
the  door  of  the  boudoir,  "he  claimed  to  have  seen 
you  with  Monsieur  de  Rubempre  in  a  position  that 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  enter;  he  fell  back 
upon  me  all  aghast,  and  dragged  me  away  without 
giving  me  time  to  recover  myself;  and  we  were  at 
Beaulieu  before  he  told  me  the  reason  of  his  retreat. 
If  I  had  understood,  I  wouldn't  have  stirred  from 
your  house  until  the  affair  was  cleared  up  to  your 
advantage;  but  to  return  after  having  once  gone, 
would  establish  nothing.  Now,  whether  Stanislas 
saw  crooked  or  whether  he  is  right,  he  must  be  put 
in  the  wrong.     Dear  Nais,  don't,  I  pray  you,  allow 


208  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

a  fool  to  play  with  your  life,  your  honor,  your 
future;  impose  silence  on  him  instantly.  You  know 
my  position  here?  Although  I  need  everybody's 
good-will,  I  am  entirely  devoted  to  you.  Do  what 
you  will  with  a  life  that  belongs  to  you.  Although 
you  have  repelled  my  advances,  my  heart  will 
always  be  yours,  and  at  every  opportunity  I  will 
prove  to  you  how  dearly  I  love  you.  Yes,  1  will 
watch  over  you  as  a  faithful  servant,  without  hope 
of  reward,  simply  for  the  pleasure  it  gives  me  to 
serve  you,  even  without  your  knowledge.  This 
morning  I  said  everywhere  that  I  was  at  the  door  of 
the  salon  and  saw  nothing.  If  anybody  asks  you 
who  informed  you  of  the  remarks  that  are  being 
made  about  you,  use  my  name.  I  shall  be  very 
proud  to  be  your  acknowledged  defender ;  but,  be- 
tween ourselves,  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  is  the  only 
one  who  can  demand  satisfaction  of  Stanislas. 
Even  if  little  Rubempre  did  do  some  foolish  thing,  a 
woman's  honor  must  not  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  first 
rattle-brained  boy  who  throws  himself  at  her  feet. 
That  is  what  I  have  said." 

Na'is  thanked  Chatelet  by  an  inclination  of  the 
head,  and  sat  lost  in  thought.  She  was  tired,  even 
to  disgust,  of  provincial  life.  At  Chatelet's  first 
word,  she  had  turned  her  eyes  upon  Paris.  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton's  silence  placed  her  adroit  ad- 
mirer in  an  embarrassing  situation. 

"Dispose  of  me,  I  repeat,"  he  said. 

"Thanks,"  was  her  reply. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  209 

"I  shall  see." 

A  long  silence. 

"Do  you  really  care  so  much  for  that  little  Ru- 
bempre?" 

She  smiled  superbly  and  folded  her  arms,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  curtains  of  her  boudoir. 
Chatelet  went  away,  having  failed  to  decipher  the 
haughty  creature's  heart.  When  Lucien  and  the 
four  faithful  old  men  who  had  come  to  play  their 
usual  game,  unmoved  by  the  doubtful  gossip,  had 
taken  their  leave,  Madame  de  Bargeton  stopped  her 
husband,  who  was  preparing  to  go  to  bed  and  had 
his  mouth  open  to  bid  his  wife  good-night 

"Come  this  way,  my  dear,  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you,"  she  said  with  a  sort  of  solemnity. 

Monsieur  de  Bargeton  followed  his  wife  into  the 
boudoir. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "perhaps  I  have  been 
wrong  to  display  in  my  patronizing  attentions  to 
Monsieur  de  Rubempre  a  warmth  as  ill  understood 
by  the  idiotic  people  of  this  town  as  by  himself. 
This  morning  Lucien  threw  himself  there,  at  my 
feet,  and  made  me  a  declaration  of  love.  Stanislas 
came  in  just  as  I  was  lifting  the  child  from  the  floor. 
Heedless  of  the  obligation  that  courtesy  imposes 
upon  a  gentleman  toward  a  lady  under  all  circum- 
stances, he  has  declared  that  he  surprised  me  in  an 
equivocal  situation  with  that  boy,  whom  I  was 
then  treating  as  he  deserves  to  be  treated.  If  the 
young  hothead  knew  of  the  calumnious  statements 
based  upon  his  folly,  I  know  him,  he  would  go  at 
14 


210  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

once  and  insult  Stanislas  and  force  him  to  fight. 
Such  a  performance  would  be  equivalent  to  a  public 
avowal  of  his  love.  I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  that 
your  wife  is  pure;  but  you  will  agree  that  it  would 
be  dishonorable  both  to  you  and  myself  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Rubempre  should  be  the  one  to  defend  her. 
Go  at  once  to  Stanislas  and  in  all  seriousness  de- 
mand satisfaction  for  the  insulting  remarks  he  has 
made  about  me;  remember  that  you  must  not  allow 
the  matter  to  be  settled  peaceably  unless  he  retracts 
in  presence  of  a  number  of  well-known  witnesses. 
In  this  way,  you  will  win  the  esteem  of  all  honor- 
able people;  you  will  act  like  a  man  of  spirit  and  of 
gallantry,  and  you  will  be  entitled  to  my  esteem.  I 
will  send  Gentil  at  once  to  Escarbas;  my  father 
must  be  your  second;  despite  his  age,  I  know  he  is 
the  man  to  trample  on  the  puppet  who  blackens  the 
reputation  of  a  Negrepelisse.  You  have  the  choice 
of  weapons,  fight  with  pistols ;  you  are  a  wonderful 
shot." 

"I  will  go  at  once,"  said  Monsieur  de  Bargeton, 
taking  his  hat  and  cane. 

"Good,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife,  deeply  moved; 
"that's  how  I  like  men  to  act.  You  are  a  gentle- 
man." 

She  gave  him  her  forehead  to  kiss,  and  the  proud 
and  happy  old  man  pressed  his  lips  to  it.  His  wife, 
who  had  a  sort  of  motherly  affection  for  the  great 
child,  could  not  restrain  a  tear  as  she  heard  the  porte 
cochere  close  behind  him. 

"How  he  loves  me!"  she  said  to  herself.     "The 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  211 

poor  man  clings  to  his  life  and  yet  he  would  lose  it 
for  me  without  a  regret" 

Monsieur  de  Bargeton  was  not  at  all  disturbed  at 
having  to  stand  up  in  front  of  another  man  and  look 
coolly  into  the  barrel  of  a  pistol  that  was  aimed  at 
him ;  no,  he  was  embarrassed  by  one  thing  only, 
and  he  shuddered  as  he  betook  himself  to  Monsieur 
de  Chandour's. 

"What  shall  I  say  ?"  he  thought.  "Nais  ought  to 
have  given  me  an  idea." 

And  he  cudgeled  his  brain  to  formulate  a  few 
phrases  that  would  not  sound  ridiculous. 

But  people  who  live,  as  Monsieur  de  Bargeton 
lived,  in  silence  imposed  upon  them  by  their  nar- 
row-mindedness and  their  limited  breadth  of  vision, 
have  at  their  disposal  in  the  great  crises  of  life  a 
ready-made  solemnity  of  demeanor.  As  they  speak 
but  little,  they  naturally  make  few  foolish  remarks; 
and  as  they  reflect  abundantly  upon  what  they 
shall  say,  their  extreme  distrust  of  themselves 
leads  them  to  study  their  projected  harangues  so 
carefully  that  they  express  themselves  wonderfully 
well,  by  a  phenomenon  similar  to  that  which 
loosened  the  tongue  of  Balaam's  ass. 

Thus  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  bore  himself  like  a 
man  of  superior  mould.  He  justified  the  opinions 
of  those  who  looked  upon  him  as  a  philosopher  of 
the  school  of  Pythagoras.  He  reached  Stanislas' 
house  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  and  found  a  numer- 
ous company  assembled  there.  He  went  up  to 
Amelie   and    saluted    her    without    speaking,    and 


212  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

bestowed  upon  each  of  the  guests  an  inane  smile, 
which,  under  the  existing  circumstances,  seemed 
profoundly  ironical.  His  advent  was  followed  by 
a  painful  silence,  as  in  nature  when  a  storm  is  ap- 
proaching. Chatelet,  who  had  returned,  glanced 
significantly  from  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  to  Stanis- 
las, whom  the  offended  husband  saluted  courteously. 

Chatelet  grasped  the  meaning  of  a  call  made  at 
an  hour  when  the  old  man  was  always  in  bed;  Na'is 
was  evidently  working  that  feeble  arm :  and,  as  his 
relations  to  Amelie  gave  him  the  right  to  intervene 
in  the  affairs  of  the  household,  he  rose,  took  Mon- 
sieur de  Bargeton  aside  and  said  to  him : 

"You  want  to  speak  to  Stanislas?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  goodman,  delighted  to  find  an 
intermediary  who  would  perhaps  do  the  talking  for 
him. 

"Very  well,  go  to  Amelie's  bedroom,"  said  the 
superintendent  of  imposts,  well  pleased  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  duel  which  might  make  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton a  widow,  while  making  it  impossible  for  her  to 
marry  Lucien,  the  cause  of  the  duel. 

"Stanislas,"  said  Chatelet  to  Monsieur  de  Chan- 
dour,  "Bargeton  has  come,  without  doubt,  to  de- 
mand satisfaction  for  what  you  have  been  saying 
about  Nais.  Come  to  your  wife's  room  and  act, 
both  of  you,  like  gentlemen.  Don't  make  any  noise 
over  it,  be  exceedingly  polite,  in  short,  be  as  cool 
and  dignified  as  a  Briton." 

A  moment  later  Stanislas  and  Chatelet  had  joined 
Bargeton. 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  213 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  outraged  husband,  "you 
claim  to  have  found  Madame  de  Bargeton  in  an 
equivocal  situation  with  Monsieur  deRubempre?" 

"With  Monsieur  Chardon,"  rejoined  Stanislas 
ironically,  for  he  fancied  that  Bargeton  was  not  a 
strong  man. 

"Very  good,"  returned  the  husband.  "If  you 
don't  contradict  your  statements  in  presence  of  those 
who  are  your  guests  at  this  moment,  I  beg  you  to 
select  a  second.  My  father-in-law,  Monsieur  de 
Negrepelisse,  will  call  upon  you  at  four  in  the 
morning.  Let  us  both  make  all  necessary  arrange- 
ments, for  the  affair  can  be  settled  in  no  other  way 
than  that  I  have  indicated.  I  select  pistols,  as  I  am 
the  insulted  party." 

On  his  way  to  the  house,  Monsieur  de  Bargeton 
had  ruminated  over  this  speech,  the  longest  he  had 
ever  made  in  his  life;  he  delivered  it  without  pas- 
sion and  with  the  simplest  manner  imaginable. 
Stanislas  turned  pale  and  said  to  himself: 

"What  did  I  see,  after  all?" 

But  between  the  shame  of  retracting  his  state- 
ments before  the  whole  town,  in  presence  of  this 
dumb  creature  who  seemed  unable  to  take  a  joke, 
and  the  fear,  the  ghastly  fear  that  grasped  his  neck 
in  its  burning  hands,  he  chose  the  more  distant 
danger. 

"Very  well.  Until  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Bargeton,  believing  that  the  matter  could 
be  arranged. 

The  three  men  returned  to  the  salon  and  everyone 


214  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

scrutinized  their  faces:  Chatelet  was  smiling, 
Monsieur  de  Bargeton  was  exactly  the  same  as  if 
he  were  in  his  own  house ;  but  Stanislas  was  as 
pale  as  death.  At  sight  of  him  some  of  the  ladies 
divined  the  object  of  the  conference.  The  words: 
"They  are  going  to  fight!"  passed  from  ear  to  ear. 
Half  of  the  party  believed  that  Stanislas  was  in  the 
wrong,  for  his  pallor  and  his  expression  accused 
him  of  falsehood;  the  other  half  admired  Monsieur 
de  Bargeton's  bearing.  Chatelet  assumed  a  grave, 
mysterious  air.  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  remained  a 
few  moments,  examining  the  faces  of  those  about 
him,  and  then  withdrew. 

"Have  you  pistols?"  whispered  Chatelet  to 
Stanislas,  who  shuddered  from  head  to  foot. 

Amelie  understood  the  meaning  of  it  all  and 
showed  symptoms  of  fainting;  the  ladies  were  all 
anxious  to  assist  in  carrying  her  to  her  bedroom. 
There  was  a  tremendous  uproar  there,  everybody 
talking  at  once.  The  men  remained  in  the  salon 
and  declared  with  one  voice  that  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton  was  within  his  rights. 

"Did  you  suppose  the  goodman  was  capable  of 
acting  thus?"  said  Monsieur  de  Saintot. 

"Why,"  said  the  pitiless  Jacques,  "in  his 
younger  days  he  was  most  expert  with  firearms. 
My  father  has  often  told  me  of  Bargeton's  ex- 
ploits." 

"Bah!  you  place  them  twenty  paces  apart  and 
they'll  both  miss  if  you  give  them  horse  pistols," 
said  Francis  to  Chatelet. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  215 

When  everybody  else  had  gone,  Chatelet  encour- 
aged Stanislas  and  his  wife,  assuring  them  that  all 
would  be  well,  and  that,  in  a  duel  between  a  man 
of  sixty  and  a  man  of  thirty-six,  the  advantage  was 
all  with  the  latter. 

The  next  morning,  when  Lucien  and  David,  who 
had  returned  from  Marsac  without  his  father,  were 
breakfasting  together,  Madame  Chardon  rushed  into 
the  room,  terrified  beyond  measure. 

"Well,  well,  Lucien,  have  you  heard  the  news 
everyone  is  talking  about,  even  in  the  market  place  ? 
Monsieur  de  Bargeton  almost  killed  Monsieur  de 
Chandour  at  five  o'clock  this  morning  in  a  meadow 
belonging  to  Monsieur  Tulloye,  a  name  that  they 
make  puns  upon.  It  seems  that  Monsieur  de  Chan- 
dour  said  yesterday  that  he  surprised  you  with  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton." 

"It's  false!  Madame  de  Bargeton  is  innocent," 
cried  Lucien. 

"A  man  from  the  country,  whom  I  heard  describ- 
ing the  details  of  the  affair,  saw  it  all  from  his 
wagon.  Monsieur  de  Negrepelisse  arrived  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  to  assist  Monsieur  de  Barge- 
ton. He  told  Monsieur  de  Chandour  that,  if  any- 
thing happened  to  his  son-in-law,  he  would  take  it 
on  himself  to  avenge  him.  An  officer  of  the  cavalry 
regiment  lent  his  pistols  and  Monsieur  de  Negre- 
pelisse tried  them  several  times.  Monsieur  du 
Chatelet  objected  to  their  trying  the  pistols,  but  the 
officer  they  took  for  a  referee  said  that  unless  they 
wanted  to  act  like  children  they  must  use  weapons 


216  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

that  were  in  proper  condition.  The  seconds  placed 
the  duelists  twenty -five  paces  apart.  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton,  who  acted  just  as  if  he  were  out  for  a  walk, 
fired  first  and  hit  Monsieur  de  Chandour  in  the 
neck;  he  fell  and  couldn't  return  the  fire.  The  sur- 
geon from  the  hospital  said  just  now  that  Monsieur 
de  Chandour's  neck  will  be  crooked  for  the  rest 
of  his  life.  I  hurried  home  to  tell  you  the  result 
of  the  duel,  to  prevent  your  going  to  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  or  showing  yourself  in  Angoul£me, 
for  some  of  Monsieur  de  Chandour's  friends  may 
insult  you." 

At  that  moment  Gentil,  Monsieur  de  Bargeton's 
footman,  entered  the  room,  escorted  by  the  ap- 
prentice from  the  printing  office  and  handed  Lucien 
this  letter  from  Louise: 

"  Doubtless  you  have  learned,  my  friend,  the  result  of  the 
duel  between  Chandour  and  my  husband.  We  shall  be  at 
home  to  no  one  to-day.  Be  prudent,  do  not  show  yourself ;  I 
ask  it  in  the  name  of  your  affection  for  me.  Do  you  not 
think  that  the  best  way  to  pass  this  sad  day  is  to  come  and 
listen  to  your  Beatrice,  whose  life  is  completely  changed  by 
this  occurrence,  and  who  has  a  thousand  things  to  say  to 
you?" 

"Luckily,"  said  David,"my  wedding  is  appointed 
for  the  day  after  to-morrow;  you  will  have  an  ex- 
cuse for  going  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's  less  fre- 
quently." 

"Dear  David,"  Lucien  answered,  "she  asks  me  to 
come  and  see  her  to-day;  I  think  I  must  do  as  she 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  217 

asks ;  she  knows  better  than  we  how  I  ought  to  act 
under  such  circumstances." 

"Is  everything  ready  here?"  asked  Madame 
Chardon. 

"Come  and  see,"  cried  David,  delighted  to  ex- 
hibit the  apartments  on  the  first  floor  in  their  trans- 
formed condition,  everything  being  fresh  and  new. 

They  exhaled  the  sweetness  that  reigns  in  young 
households  where  orange  flowers  and  the  bridal  veil 
still  crown  the  home  life,  where  the  springtime  of 
love  is  reflected  in  everything,  where  everything  is 
white  and  clean  and  blooming. 

"Eve  will  be  like  a  princess,"  said  the  mother; 
"but  you  have  spent  too  much  money,  you  have 
been  foolish!" 

David  smiled  without  replying,  for  Madame 
Chardon  had  placed  her  finger  upon  a  raw  secret 
wound  which  caused  the  poor  lover  cruel  suffering: 
his  ideas  had  been  so  exceeded  in  carrying  them  out 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  build  over  the 
lean-to.  His  mother-in-law  would  not  for  a  long 
time  to  come  have  the  apartment  that  he  intended 
her  to  have.  Generous  minds  feel  the  keenest 
sorrow  in  breaking  promises  of  that  sort,  which  are, 
in  a  certain  sense,  the  little  vanities  of  affection. 
David  carefully  concealed  his  embarrassment,  in 
order  to  avoid  giving  pain  to  Lucien,  who  might 
well  have  felt  crushed  by  the  burden  of  the  sacrifices 
made  for  him. 

"Eve  and  her  friends  have  worked  hard  too, "  said 
Madame   Chardon.      "The    trousseau,    the    house 


2l8  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

linen,  everything  is  ready.  The  girls  are  so  fond 
of  her  that  they  have  covered  her  mattresses  with 
white  fustian  edged  with  pink,  without  her  knowl- 
edge. It's  very  pretty!  it  makes  one  long  to  be 
married." 

The  mother  and  daughter  had  expended  all  their 
savings  in  furnishing  David's  house  with  the  things 
of  which  young  men  never  think.  Knowing  how 
luxuriously  he  was  doing  his  part,  for  they  had  heard 
of  a  dinner  service  ordered  at  Limoges,  they  had 
tried  to  make  the  things  they  contributed  harmo- 
nize with  those  purchased  by  David.  This  little 
struggle  between  love  and  generosity  was  destined 
to  cause  pecuniary  troubles  for  the  young  hus- 
band and  wife  from  the  very  beginning,  amid  all 
the  outward  indications  of  bourgeois  comfort  which 
would  be  esteemed  luxury  in  an  old-fashioned  town 
such  as  Angouleme  then  was. 

As  soon  as  Lucien  saw  his  mother  and  David  go 
into  the  bedroom,  whose  blue  and  white  hangings 
and  pretty  furniture  were  so  familiar  to  him,  he 
made  his  escape  and  hurried  to  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton's.  He  found  Nais  breakfasting  with  her  hus- 
band, who  was  eating  heartily,  entirely  unmoved 
by  what  had  taken  place,  his  appetite  having  been 
sharpened  by  his  early  walk.  The  old  country 
gentleman,  Monsieur  de  Negrepelisse,  an  imposing 
relic  of  the  old  French  nobility,  was  with  his 
daughter.  When  Gentil  announced  Monsieur  de 
Rubempre,  the  white-haired  old  man  bestowed  upon 
him  the  searching  glance  of  a  father  eager  to  pass 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  219 

judgment  upon  the  man  his  daughter  has  distin- 
guished. Lucien's  extraordinary  beauty  impressed 
him  so  deeply  that  he  could  not  repress  an  expres- 
sion of  approval ;  but  he  seemed  to  look  upon  his 
daughter's  liaison  as  an  ephemeral  affair,  a  mere 
whim  rather  than  a  lasting  passion.  The  break- 
fast came  to  an  end.  Louise  rose,  leaving  her  father 
and  Monsieur  de  Bargeton  in  the  dining-room  and 
motioning  to  Lucien  to  follow  her. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  in  a  tone  that  was  at  once 
sad  and  joyful,  "I  am  going  to  Paris  and  my  father 
is  to  take  Bargeton  to  Escarbas,  where  he  will  stay 
during  my  absence.  Madame  d'Espard,  a  Blamont- 
Chauvry,  with  whom  we  are  connected  through  the 
D'Espards,  the  elder  branch  of  the  Negrepelisses, 
enjoys  great  influence  just  at  this  time,  through  her 
own  charms  as  well  as  through  her  connections.  If 
she  deigns  to  acknowledge  us,  1  propose  to  cultivate 
her  acquaintance  assiduously;  by  her  influence  she 
can  obtain  a  place  for  Bargeton.  My  solicitations 
may  lead  the  court  to  express  a  desire  that  he  be 
chosen  deputy  from  the  Charente,  which  will  assist 
his  chances  of  election  here.  His  having  a  seat  in 
the  Chamber  may  later  be  of  assistance  to  my  plans 
in  Paris.  You  are  the  one,  my  darling  child,  who 
have  led  me  to  make  this  change  in  my  life.  This 
morning's  duel  compels  me  to  close  my  house  for 
some  time,  for  there  are  people  who  will  take  sides 
with  the  Chandours  against  us.  In  our  present 
position,  especially  in  a  small  town,  absence  is 
always  necessary  to  give  hard  feeling  time  to  be 


220  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

softened.  But,  either  I  shall  succeed  and  shall 
never  see  Angoul£me  again,  or  I  shall  fail;  and  in 
that  event,  I  shall  await  at  Paris  the  time  when  I 
can  pass  all  my  summers  at  Escarbas  and  my  win- 
ters at  Paris.  That  is  the  only  life  for  a  woman 
comme  ilfaut,  and  I  have  delayed  too  long  about  tak- 
ing it  up.  The  day  will  suffice  for  all  our  prepara- 
tions; I  shall  start  to-morrow  night,  and  you  will 
go  with  me,  won't  you  ?  You  must  go  on  ahead. 
Between  Mansle  and  Ruffec  I  will  take  you  into  my 
carriage,  and  we  shall  soon  be  in  Paris.  There, 
my  dear,  is  the  stage  for  people  of  superior  minds. 
One  is  never  at  ease  except  with  one's  equals; 
anywhere  else  one  suffers.  Moreover,  Paris,  the 
capital  of  the  intellectual  world,  is  the  field  wherein 
you  can  achieve  success ;  hasten  to  pass  the  space 
that  separates  you  from  it.  Do  not  let  your  ideas 
rust  in  the  provinces,  but  put  yourself  promptly  in 
communication  with  the  great  men  who  will  repre- 
sent the  nineteenth  century.  Draw  near  to  the 
court  and  the  seat  of  power.  Neither  distinctions 
nor  dignities  will  seek  out  the  talent  that  is  running 
to  seed  in  a  small  town.  Name  me  any  notable 
works  that  were  ever  executed  in  the  provinces! 
On  the  other  hand,  see  the  sublime,  poverty- 
stricken  Jean- Jacques  irresistibly  attracted  by  that 
moral  sun  which  creates  renown,  warming  men's 
minds  by  the  constant  friction  of  rivalries!  Should 
you  not  hasten  to  take  your  place  among  the  con- 
stellations that  every  generation  produces?  You 
would  not  believe  how  useful  it  is  to  youthful  talent 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  221 

to  be  exhibited  for  the  first  time  in  the  best  society. 
I  will  persuade  Madame  d'Espard  to  receive  you; 
no  one  finds  it  easy  to  gain  admission  to  her  salon, 
where  you  will  find  all  the  great  personages,  min- 
isters, ambassadors,  the  orators  of  the  Chamber, 
the  most  influential  peers,  and  numbers  of  wealthy 
or  famous  men  and  women.  One  must  be  quite 
devoid  of  tact  to  be  unable  to  arouse  their  interest, 
when  one  is  handsome,  young,  and  running  over 
with  genius.  Great  talents  are  not  narrow-minded, 
they  will  lend  you  their  support.  When  you  are 
known  to  occupy  a  lofty  position,  your  works  will 
acquire  enormous  value.  The  great  problem  for 
artists  to  solve  is  how  to  place  themselves  where 
they  can  be  seen.  Thus  you  will  find  there  in- 
numerable opportunities  to  make  your  fortune,  some 
sinecure,  or  a  pension  on  the  privy  purse.  The 
Bourbons  are  so  devoted  to  letters  and  the  arts !  be 
at  once  a  religious  poet  and  a  royalist  poet.  Not 
only  will  that  be  worthily  done,  but  you  will  make 
your  fortune.  Does  the  opposition,  does  liberalism, 
give  places  and  rewards  and  make  the  fortune  of 
authors  ?  So  take  the  pleasant  road,  and  come  where 
all  men  of  genius  go.  You  have  my  secret,  pre- 
serve the  most  absolute  silence  and  make  your  ar- 
rangements to  accompany  me. — Don't  you  want 
to?"  she  added,  amazed  at  her  lover's  silent  atti- 
tude. 

Lucien,  dazed  by  the  rapid  glance  he  cast  upon 
Paris  as  he  listened  to  these  seductive  words,  felt 
as  if  he  had  hitherto  used  only  half  of  his  brain ;  it 


222  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

seemed  to  him  as  if  the  other  half  were  just  begin- 
ning to  bestir  itself,  so  rapidly  did  his  ideas  expand ; 
he  looked  upon  himself,  in  Angouleme,  as  a  frog 
under  his  stone  in  the  heart  of  a  swamp.  Paris  and 
its  splendors,  Paris,  which  looms  in  all  provincial 
imaginations  as  a  sort  of  Eldorado,  appeared  to  him 
then  in  her  golden  robe,  her  head  adorned  with  cir- 
clets of  royal  gems,  her  arms  open  to  talent.  Illus- 
trious men  would  come  forth  to  give  him  a  fraternal 
greeting.  There,  everything  smiled  on  genius. 
There  were  no  jealous  country  squires  to  utter  cut- 
ting remarks  to  humiliate  the  writer,  no  stupid 
indifference  to  poetry.  Thence  the  works  of  poets 
shed  their  refulgent  light;  there  they  were  paid  and 
made  known  to  the  world.  After  reading  the  first 
few  pages  of  his  Archer  de  Charles  IX.,  the  book- 
sellers would  open  their  cash-boxes  and  say  :  "  How 
much  do  you  want?"  He  understood,  too,  that,  after 
a  journey  in  which  they  would  be  married  by  cir- 
cumstances, Madame  de  Bargeton  would  be  his  ab- 
solutely, that  they  would  live  together. 

To  the  question:  "Don't  you  want  to?"  he 
replied  with  a  tear,  seized  Louise  around  the  waist, 
pressed  her  to  his  heart  and  reddened  her  neck  by 
the  ardent  pressure  of  his  kisses.  But  suddenly  he 
paused,  as  if  something  had  just  come  to  his  mind, 
and  cried: 

"Great  God!  my  sister  is  to  be  married  on  the 
day  after  to-morrow." 

That  cry  was  the  last  sigh  of  the  noble,  pure- 
hearted   child.      The   powerful    bonds   that  attach 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  223 

young  hearts  to  their  families,  to  their  early  friends, 
to  all  the  primitive  sentiments,  were  about  to  re- 
ceive a  terrible  blow. 

"Well,"  cried  the  haughty  Negrepelisse,  "what 
has  your  sister's  marriage  in  common  with  the 
progress  of  our  love?  Are  you  so  bent  upon  being 
the  good  fairy  of  that  bourgeois  and  working-girl's 
wedding,  that  you  cannot  sacrifice  its  noble  delights  ? 
A  sacrifice  indeed!"  she  added,  with  bitter  con- 
tempt. "I  sent  my  husband  out  this  morning  to 
fight  a  duel  on  your  account!  Go,  monsieur,  leave 
me!     I  have  deceived  myself. " 

She  fell  fainting  on  her  couch.  Lucien  followed 
her  thither,  imploring  her  forgiveness,  cursing  his 
family,  David  and  his  sister  alike. 

"I  had  such  faith  in  you!"  she  said.  "Monsieur 
de  Cante-Croix  had  a  mother  whom  he  idolized, 
but,  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  a  letter  from  me  in 
which  I  should  say  to  him:  /  am  satisfied!  he  died 
on  the  battlefield.  And  you,  forsooth!  cannot  give 
up  a  wedding-breakfast  for  the  sake  of  taking  a 
journey  with  me!" 

Lucien  swore  that  he  would  kill  himself,  and  his 
despair  was  so  sincere,  so  profound,  that  Louise 
forgave  him,  but  made  him  feel  that  he  would  have 
to  atone  for  his  sin. 

"Go,"  she  said  at  last,  "be  discreet,  and  to-mor- 
row night  at  midnight,  wait  for  me  a  hundred  yards 
beyond  Mansle. " 

Lucien  felt  the  earth  grow  small  beneath  his  feet; 
he  returned  to  David's  house,  attended  by  Hope  as 


224  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

Orestes  was  by  his  Furies,  for  he  foresaw  a  thou- 
sand obstacles,  all  of  which  were  included  in  that 
terrible  question:  "What  about  money ?"  David's 
perspicacity  terrified  him  so  that  he  shut  himself 
up  in  his  pretty  study  to  recover  from  the  bewilder- 
ment caused  by  his  new  position.  He  must  leave 
that  apartment,  furnished  at  so  great  a  cost,  and 
render  useless  so  many  sacrifices.  It  occurred  to 
Lucien  that  his  mother  might  live  there,  and  thus 
David  could  dispense  with  the  costly  structure  he 
had  planned  to  build  at  the  end  of  the  courtyard. 
His  departure  would  be  an  advantage  to  his  family; 
he  found  a  thousand  peremptory  reasons  for  going 
away,  for  there  is  nothing  so  Jesuitical  as  a  desire. 
He  hastened  at  once  to  his  sister  at  L'Houmeau,  to 
tell  her  of  his  new  prospects  and  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  her.  As  he  passed  PosteFs  shop,  he 
thought  that,  if  there  were  no  other  way,  he  would 
borrow  from  his  father's  successor  the  sum  neces- 
sary for  a  year's  stay  in  Paris. 

"If  I  live  with  Louise,  a  crown  a  day  will  be  a 
fortune  to  me,  and  that  makes  only  a  thousand  francs 
a  year,"  he  said  to  himself.  "And  in  six  months 
I  shall  be  rich!" 

Eve  and  her  mother  listened  to  Lucien's  confi- 
dences under  a  promise  of  absolute  secrecy.  Both 
wept  as  they  heard  what  the  ambitious  youth  had 
to  tell  them ;  and  when  he  sought  to  learn  the  cause 
of  their  grief,  they  informed  him  that  all  they  pos- 
sessed had  been  absorbed  by  the  table  and  house- 
hold linen,  by  Eve's  trousseau  and  by  a  multitude 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  225 

of  purchases  of  which  David  had  not  thought,  and 
which  they  were  happy  to  have  made,  for  the 
printer  had  settled  ten  thousand  francs  on  Eve. 
Thereupon,  Lucien  told  them  of  his  idea  of  a  loan, 
and  Madame  Chardon  undertook  to  ask  Postel  for 
a  thousand  francs  for  one  year. 

"But  Lucien,"  said  Eve,  with  a  feeling  of  oppres- 
sion at  her  heart,  "you  won't  be  at  my  wedding? 
Oh!  come  back;  I  will  wait  a  few  days!  Surely 
she  will  let  you  come  back  after  a  fortnight,  when 
you  have  escorted  her  to  Paris!  She  certainly  can 
spare  us  a  week,  when  we  have  brought  you  up  for 
her!  Our  marriage  will  turn  out  badly  if  you  are 
not  there.— But  will  a  thousand  francs  be  enough?" 
she  said,  suddenly  interrupting  herself.  "Although 
your  coat  becomes  you  divinely,  you  have  only  one ! 
You  have  only  two  fine  shirts,  the  other  six  are 
coarse  linen.  You  have  only  three  lawn  cravats, 
the  other  three  are  common  jaconet;  and  then  your 
handkerchiefs  are  not  fine  enough.  Will  you  find  a 
sister  in  Paris  to  wash  and  iron  your  linen  for  you 
the  very  day  you  need  it  ?  you  must  have  more  of 
it.  You  have  only  one  pair  of  nankeen  trousers 
made  this  year;  last  year's  are  too  short  for  you; 
so  you  will  have  to  buy  clothes  in  Paris,  and  Paris 
prices  are  different  from  Angouleme  prices.  You 
have  only  two  white  waistcoats  fit  to  wear,  I  have 
mended  the  others  already.  I  advise  you  to  borrow 
two  thousand  francs." 

David,    entering    the    room    at    that    moment, 
seemed   to  have  overheard  the  last  sentence,  for 
15 


226  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

he  looked  earnestly  at  the  brother  and  sister  with- 
out speaking. 

"Don't  conceal  anything  from  me,"  he  said 
at  last. 

"He  is  going  away  with  her,"  cried  Eve. 

"Postel  agrees  to  let  you  have  the  thousand 
francs,"  said  Madame  Chardon,  returning  to  the 
room  without  seeing  David,  "but  for  six  months 
only,  and  he  wants  your  note  of  hand  endorsed  by 
your  brother-in-law,  for  he  says  you  don't  offer  any 
security." 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  and  saw  her  future 
son-in-law,  and  the  four  stood  looking  at  one 
another  in  absolute  silence.  The  Chardon  family 
knew  how  they  had  abused  David's  generosity. 
They  were  all  ashamed.  A  tear  stood  in  the 
printer's  eye. 

"Then  you  won't  be  at  my  wedding?"  he  said; 
"you  won't  stay  with  us  ?  And  to  think  that  I  have 
spent  all  I  had!  Ah!  Lucien,  I  have  brought  Eve 
her  poor  little  bridal  jewels;  1  didn't  know,"  he 
added,  wiping  his  eyes  and  taking  several  cases 
from  his  pocket,  "that  I  should  have  to  regret  hav- 
ing brought  them." 

He  placed  the  morocco-covered  boxes  on  the  table, 
in  front  of  his  mother-in-law. 

"Why  do  you  think  so  much  of  me?"  said  Eve, 
with  an  angelic  smile  that  contradicted  the  implied 
reproach. 

"Dear  mamma,"  said  the  printer,  "go  and  tell 
Monsieur  Postel  that  I  consent  to  endorse  the  note, 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  227 

for  1  see  from  your  face,  Lucien,  that  you  are  fully 
decided  to  go." 

Lucien  bowed  gently  and  sadly,  saying  a  moment 
later : 

"Don't  think  ill  of  me,  my  beloved  angels," 

He  drew  Eve  and  David  to  him  and  embraced 
them,  adding: 

"Await  results  and  you  will  see  how  dearly  I  love 
you.  David,  what  good  would  our  lofty  thoughts 
do,  if  they  did  not  permit  us  to  dispense  with  the 
petty  formalities  with  which  the  laws  entangle  sen- 
timents ?  Despite  the  distance,  will  not  my  heart 
be  here?  shall  we  not  be  united  in  thought?  Have 
I  not  a  destiny  to  fulfil  ?  Will  the  booksellers  come 
here  to  look  for  my  Archer  de  Charles  IX.,  and  Les 
Marguerites  ?  Must  1  not  do  at  some  time,  sooner 
or  later,  what  I  am  doing  to-day?  shall  I  ever  find 
circumstances  more  favorable?  Is  it  not  worth  a 
whole  fortune  to  me  simply  to  make  my  debut  in 
Paris  in  the  Marquise  d'Espard's  salon?" 

"He  is  right,"  said  Eve.  "Didn't  you  say  your- 
self that  he  ought  soon  to  go  to  Paris?" 

David  took  Eve's  hand,  led  her  into  the  narrow 
closet  in  which  she  had  slept  for  seven  years,  and 
whispered  in  her  ear: 

"Did  you  say  that  he  needs  two  thousand  francs, 
my  love?     Postel  lends  him  only  one  thousand." 

Eve  looked  at  her  future  husband  with  a  heart- 
rending expression  that  betrayed  all  her  suffering. 

"Listen,  my  adored  Eve;  we  are  going  to  begin 
life  badly.     Yes,  my  expenses  have  absorbed  all  I 


228  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

possessed.  I  have  but  two  thousand  francs  left,  and 
half  of  that  is  indispensable  to  keep  the  printing- 
office  at  work.  To  give  your  brother  a  thousand 
francs  is  to  give  him  the  bread  out  of  our  mouths, 
to  endanger  our  happiness.  If  I  were  alone,  I 
know  what  I  would  do;  but  there  are  two  of  us. 
Decide." 

Eve  threw  herself  wildly  into  her  lover's  arms, 
kissed  him  fondly,  and  whispered  to  him,  her  eyes 
wet  with  tears: 

"Do  as  you  would  do  if  you  were  alone;  I  will 
work  to  earn  the  money." 

Despite  the  most  ardent  kiss  that  lovers  ever 
exchanged,  David  left  Eve  sorely  depressed,  and 
returned  to  Lucien. 

"Don't  be  distressed,"  he  said,  "you  shall  have 
your  two  thousand  francs." 

"Go  and  see  Postel,"  said  Madame  Chardon, 
"for  you  both  have  to  sign  the  note." 

When  the  two  friends  returned,  they  surprised 
Eve  and  her  mother  on  their  knees,  praying. 
Although  they  knew  how  many  hopes  his  future 
return  from  Paris  was  likely  to  fulfil,  they  felt  at 
that  moment  all  that  they  lost  in  bidding  him  fare- 
well ;  for  they  considered  that  possible  happiness  to 
come  was  not  worth  the  price  of  a  separation  which 
would  break  up  their  family  life  and  cast  them  upon 
a  sea  of  anxiety  concerning  Lucien's  destiny. 

"If  you  ever  forget  this  scene,"  said  David  in 
Lucien's  ear,  "you  will  be  the  lowest  of  men." 

Doubtless  the  printer  deemed  those  solemn  words 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  229 

necessary ;  Madame  de  Bargeton's  influence  alarmed 
him  no  less  than  Lucien's  deplorably  fickle  nature, 
which  was  as  likely  to  lead  him  into  evil  courses 
as  into  honorable  ones.  Eve  soon  had  Lucien's 
clothes  ready  for  him.  This  literary  Fernando 
Cortez  took  but  few  things  with  him.  He  wore 
his  best  redingote,  his  best  waistcoat  and  one  of  his 
two  fine  shirts.  All  his  linen,  his  famous  dress 
coat,  his  other  clothes  and  his  manuscripts  made 
such  a  small  bundle,  that,  to  conceal  it  from  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton,  David  proposed  to  send  it  by  the 
diligence  to  his  correspondent,  a  dealer  in  paper,  to 
whom  he  would  write  to  hold  it  subject  to  Lucien's 
orders. 

Despite  Madame  de  Bargeton's  precautions  to  con- 
ceal her  departure,  Chatelet  learned  of  it  and  de- 
termined to  ascertain  whether  she  made  the  journey 
alone  or  in  Lucien's  company;  he  sent  his  valet  to 
Ruffec,  with  instructions  to  examine  all  the  carriages 
that  changed  horses  at  the  posting-station. 

"If  she  takes  her  poet  with  her,"  he  thought, 
"she  is  mine." 

Lucien  started  the  next  morning  at  daybreak, 
accompanied  by  David,  who  had  hired  a  horse  and 
cabriolet,  saying  that  he  was  going  to  see  his  father 
on  business ;  a  little  falsehood  which,  under  existing 
circumstances,  was  not  improbable.  The  two 
friends  drove  to  Marsac,  where  they  passed  part  of 
the  day  with  the  old  bear;  then,  in  the  evening, 
they  drove  a  little  beyond  Mansle,  to  wait  for  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton,  who   arrived  toward  morning. 


230  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

As  he  caught  sight  of  the  old  sexagenarian  caleche 
that  he  had  so  often  seen  in  the  carriage-house,  Lu- 
cien  experienced  one  of  the  keenest  thrills  of 
emotion  of  his  whole  life;  he  threw  himself  into 
David's  arms. 

"God  grant  this  may  prove  to  be  for  your  good !" 
said  David. 

The  printer  re-entered  his  wretched  cabriolet  and 
drove  away  with  an  oppressed  heart,  for  he  had 
gloomy  forebodings  of  the  destiny  that  awaited  Lu- 
cien  in  Paris. 


PART  SECOND 


(23O 


A  PROVINCIAL  GREAT  MAN  AT  PARIS 

* 

Neither  Lucien  nor  Madame  de  Bargeton,  Gentil, 
nor  Albertine,  the  maid,  ever  spoke  of  the  events 
of  that  journey ;  but  it  may  well  be  believed  that 
the  constant  presence  of  servants  made  it  very 
irksome  to  a  lover  who  was  anticipating  all  the 
pleasures  of  an  elopement.  Lucien,  who  then 
traveled  by  post  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was 
dismayed  to  find  that  almost  the  whole  sum  he  had 
expected  to  live  upon  for  a  year  was  scattered  along 
the  road  from  Angouleme  to  Paris.  Like  most  men 
who  combine  the  charms  of  boyhood  with  the  energy 
of  talent,  he  made  the  mistake  of  expressing  his 
ingenuous  amazement  at  the  sight  of  things  that 
were  new  and  strange  to  him.  A  man  should  study 
a  woman  carefully  before  allowing  her  to  see  his 
emotions  and  his  thoughts  in  their  crude  state.  A 
mistress  as  loving  as  she  is  noble  smiles  at  such 
childish  ways  and  understands  them;  but  let  her  be 
ever  so  little  vain,  and  she  never  forgives  her  lover 
for  being  childish,  vain  or  trivial.  Many  women 
carry  their  adoration  to  such  a  point  that  they 
always  expect  to  find  a  god   in  their  idol;    while 

(233) 


234  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

those  who  love  a  man  for  himself,  before  loving  him 
for  themselves,  adore  his  pettinesses  as  well  as  his 
great  qualities.  Lucien  had  not  yet  discovered  that 
in  Madame  de  Bargeton's  case,  love  was  grafted 
upon  pride.  He  made  the  mistake  of  not  seeking 
an  explanation  of  certain  smiles  that  escaped  Louise 
during  the  journey,  when,  instead  of  restraining 
himself,  he  indulged  in  the  pretty  antics  of  a  young 
rat  just  out  of  his  hole. 

The  travelers  alighted  at  the  Hotel  du  Gaillard- 
Bois,  Rue  de  l'Echelle,  before  daybreak.  They 
were  so  fatigued  that  Louise  desired  beyond  every- 
thing to  go  to  bed,  and  she  did  so,  having  told  Lu- 
cien to  request  a  room  above  the  apartments  that 
she  engaged.  Lucien  slept  until  four  in  the  after- 
noon. Madame  de  Bargeton  sent  to  waken  him  for 
dinner;  he  dressed  himself  hurriedly  when  he 
learned  the  time,  and  found  Louise  in  one  of  those 
vile  chambers  which  are  the  disgrace  of  Paris, 
where,  despite  all  its  pretensions  to  splendor,  there 
does  not  as  yet  exist  a  single  hotel  where  a  wealthy 
traveler  can  find  the  comforts  of  home. 

His  eyes  were  dimmed  by  the  haze  left  by  a  sud- 
den awakening,  and  he  did  not  recognize  his  Louise 
in  that  cold,  sunless  room,  with  faded  curtains,  a 
wretched,  uncarpeted  floor  and  ugly,  worn  furniture, 
very  old  or  bought  at  second-hand.  It  is  a  fact  that 
there  are  some  people  who  have  not  the  same  aspect 
or  the  same  attractiveness  when  they  are  separated 
from  the  figures,  the  objects,  the  localities  which 
have  served  them  as  a  frame.     Living  faces  have 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  235 

a  sort  of  atmosphere  that  is  suited  to  them,  just  as 
the  chiaro-oscuro  of  Flemish  paintings  is  necessary 
to  the  vitality  of  the  figures  which  the  painter's 
genius  has  placed  therein.  Almost  all  provincials 
come  within  this  category.  Then,  too,  Madame  de 
Bargeton  seemed  more  reserved,  more  thoughtful, 
than  she  should  have  been  at  the  moment  when  a 
life  of  unfettered  happiness  was  dawning.  But 
Lucien  could  not  complain.  They  were  waited 
upon  by  Gentil  and  Albertine.  The  dinner  lacked 
the  abundance  and  essential  excellence  which  are 
the  distinguishing  characteristics  of  provincial  din- 
ners. The  dishes,  brought  from  a  neighboring 
restaurant,  were  insufficient  in  quantity,  carefully 
subdivided,  and  our  lovers  dined  on  short  commons. 
Paris  does  not  shine  in  those  little  matters  to  which 
people  of  moderate  fortune  are  condemned.  Lucien 
waited  until  the  end  of  the  dinner  to  question 
Louise,  whose  changed  bearing  was  inexplicable  to 
him.  He  was  not  mistaken.  A  serious  event — for 
reflections  are  events  in  one's  moral  life — had  oc- 
curred while  he  was  sleeping. 

About  two  in  the  afternoon,  Sixte  du  Chatelet 
appeared  at  the  hotel,  sent  a  servant  to  waken 
Albertine,  told  her  that  he  wished  to  speak  with  her 
mistress,  and  returned  after  allowing  Madame  de 
Bargeton  barely  sufficient  time  to  make  her  toilet. 
Anais,  whose  curiosity  was  aroused  by  Monsieur  du 
Chatelet's  unexpected  appearance  on  the  scene — 
for  she  thought  she  had  covered  her  tracks  perfectly 
— received  him  about  three  o'clock. 


236  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

"I  followed  you,  taking  the  risk  of  a  reprimand 
from  headquarters, "  he  said,  as  he  bowed  to  her,  "for 
I  foresaw  what  would  happen.  But,  even  if  1  lose 
my  place,  you  shall  not  be  lost!" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Madame  de  Bargeton, 
"1  see  that  you  love  Lucien,"  he  continued,  with 
an  air  offender  resignation,  "for  one  must  love  a 
man  very  dearly  to  throw  reflection  to  the  winds, 
to  forget  all  the  proprieties,  which  nobody  is  more 
familiar  with  than  you!  Do  you  imagine,  pray,  my 
dear,  adored  Nais,  that  you  will  be  received  at  Ma- 
dame d'Espard's,  or  in  any  salon  in  Paris,  when  it 
is  known  that  you  have   practically  eloped  from 
Angouleme  with  a  young  man,  and  especially  after 
Monsieur    de    Bargeton's   duel    with   Monsieur    de 
Chandour  ?     Your  husband's  stay  at  Escarbas  looks 
like  a  separation.     In  such  cases,  men  of  the  world 
begin  by  fighting  for  their  wives'  honor,  and  then 
leave   them   free.      Love  Monsieur   de  Rubempre, 
patronize  him,  do  whatever  you  please  in  every- 
thing, but  do  not  remain  together!     If  anyone  here 
should  know  that  you  had  made  the  journey  in  the 
same  carriage,  you  would  be  excommunicated  by 
the  social  set  you  are  desirous  to  enter.     And  again, 
Nais,    do  not   make    such   sacrifices  as  this  for  a 
young  man  whom  you  have  as  yet  compared  to  no- 
body, who  has  been  subjected  to  no  test,  and  may 
forget  you  for  some  Parisian  woman,  deeming  her 
more  necessary  than  you  to  his  ambitious  projects. 
I  have  no  wish  to  injure  the  man  you  love,  but  you 
will  permit  me  to  place  your  interests  before  his, 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  237 

and  to  say  to  you:  'Study  him!  Realize  the  full 
meaning  of  what  you  are  doing.'  If  you  find  the 
doors  closed,  if  ladies  refuse  to  receive  you,  at  least 
do  not  regret  your  sacrifice,  being  certain  that  he 
for  whom  you  make  it,  will  always  be  worthy  of  it 
and  will  understand  it.  Madame  d'Espard  is  the 
more  rigid  and  exacting  in  such  matters  because  she 
is  herself  living  apart  from  her  husband,  for  some 
reason  which  society  has  never  been  able  to  dis- 
cover; but  the  Navarreins,  the  Blamont-Chauvrys, 
the  Lenoncourts,  all  her  relatives,  have  taken  her 
up,  the  most  straitlaced  women  go  to  her  house  and 
receive  her  at  their  houses  with  great  respect,  so 
that  the  Marquis  d'Espard  is  in  the  wrong.  The 
very  first  time  that  you  call  upon  her,  you  will 
realize  the  correctness  of  what  1  say.  I,  knowing 
Paris  as  I  do,  can  predict  just  what  will  happen  as 
you  enter  the  marchioness'  salon,  you  will  be  in 
despair  lest  she  should  learn  that  you  are  at  the 
Hotel  du  Gaillard-Bois  with  an  apothecary's  son, 
though  he  does  call  himself  Monsieur  de  Rubempre. 
You  will  have  rivals  here  much  more  astute  and  sly 
than  Amelie,  and  they  will  not  fail  to  ascertain  who 
you  are,  where  you  are,  whence  you  come  and  what 
you  are  doing.  You  relied  upon  your  incognito,  I 
see;  but  you  are  one  of  those  persons  for  whom 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  incognito.  Won't  you 
fall  in  with  Angouleme  everywhere?  there  are  the 
deputies  from  the  Charente  who  have  come  up  for 
the  opening  of  the  session;  there  is  the  general  in 
Paris  on  leave;  but  it  will  be  enough  that  a  single 


238  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

person  from  Angouleme  should  see  you,  to  check 
your  career  with  extraordinary  promptitude;  you 
would  be  nothing  more  than  Lucien's  mistress.  If 
you  need  me  for  any  purpose,  I  am  at  the  receiver- 
general's,  Rue  du  Faubourg-Saint-Honore,  within 
two  steps  of  Madame  d'Espard.  I  know  the  Mare- 
chale  de  Carigliano,  Madame  de  Serizy  and  the 
President  of  the  Council  well  enough  to  present  you 
to  them ;  but  you  will  see  so  many  people  at  Ma- 
dame d'Espard's  that  you  won't  need  me.  Far 
from  desiring  to  go  to  this  or  that  salon,  your  pres- 
ence will  be  desired  in  all  the  salons." 

Madame  de  Bargeton  allowed  Chatelet  to  speak 
without  interruption :  she  was  impressed  by  the 
justness  of  his  observations.  The  Queen  of  An- 
gouleme had,  in  fact,  relied  upon  her  incognito. 

"You  are  right,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said,  "but 
what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Let  me  find  you  a  suitable  furnished  apartment," 
said  Chatelet;  "in  that  way,  you  will  live  less  ex- 
pensively than  at  a  hotel,  and  you  will  be  at  home; 
if  you  take  my  advice,  you  will  sleep  there  to- 
night." 

"But  how  did  you  know  my  address?"  she  said. 

"Your  carriage  was  easy  to  recognize,  and,  be- 
sides that,  1  followed  you.  At  Sevres,  the  postilion 
who  drove  you  gave  my  postilion  your  address. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  be  your  quartermaster?  I 
will  write  you  a  line  soon  to  let  you  know  where 
I  have  found  quarters  for  you." 

"Very  well,  do  so,"  she  said. 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  239 

Those  words  seemed  unimportant,  but  they  were 
really  of  the  utmost  importance.  The  Baron  du 
Chatelet  had  spoken  the  language  of  society  to  a 
society  woman.  He  had  appeared  before  her  in  all 
the  elegance  of  Parisian  costume ;  a  pretty  cabriolet, 
well-appointed,  had  brought  him  to  the  hotel.  By 
chance,  Madame  de  Bargeton  walked  to  the  window 
to  reflect  upon  her  position,  and  saw  the  old  beau 
drive  away.  A  few  moments  later,  Lucien, 
awakened  from  a  sound  sleep,  having  dressed  in 
great  haste,  appeared  before  her  in  his  last  year's 
nankeen  trousers,  with  his  shabby  little  redingote. 
He  was  handsome,  but  ridiculously  dressed.  Put  a 
water-carrier's  costume  on  the  Apollo  Belvedere  or 
the  Antinous;  would  you  then  recognize  the  divine 
creature  of  the  Greek  or  Roman  chisel  ?  The  eyes 
make  comparisons  before  the  heart  has  rectified 
their  rapid,  instinctive  judgment.  The  contrast  be- 
tween Lucien  and  Chatelet  was  too  sudden  not  to 
make  an  impression  upon  Louise. 

When  the  dinner  was  at  an  end,  about  six  o'clock, 
Madame  de  Bargeton  motioned  to  Lucien  to  come 
and  sit  beside  her  on  a  wretched  couch  covered  with 
a  red  chintz  with  yellow  flowers. 

"My  Lucien,"  she  began,  "don't  you  think  that, 
if  we  have  done  a  foolish  thing  that  will  ruin  us 
both  alike,  we  ought  to  do  our  best  to  undo  it?  We 
must  neither  remain  together  in  Paris,  my  dear 
child,  nor  allow  it  to  be  suspected  that  we  came 
hither  in  company.  Your  future  depends  in  a  great 
measure  upon  my  position,  and  1  must  be  careful 


240  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

not  to  compromise  it  in  any  way.  So  I  am  going, 
this  evening,  into  lodgings  a  few  steps  away;  but 
you  will  remain  in  this  hotel  and  we  can  see  each 
other  every  day  without  giving  anyone  an  oppor- 
tunity to  criticize  us." 

Louise  explained  the  laws  of  society  to  Lucien, 
who  listened  with  wide  open  eyes.  Although  he 
did  not  realize  that  they  who  regret  their  follies 
regret  their  love,  he  did  realize  that  he  was  no 
longer  the  Lucien  of  Angouleme.  Louise  spoke  only 
of  herself,  her  interests,  her  reputation  and  society; 
and,  to  excuse  her  egotism,  she  tried  to  make  him 
believe  that  his  own  interests  were  at  stake.  He 
had  no  rights  over  Louise,  who  had  so  suddenly  be- 
come Madame  de  Bargeton  again,  and — worse  still ! 
— he  had  no  power  over  her.  So  he  could  not  keep 
the  great  tears  from  gathering  in  his  eyes. 

"If  I  am  your  glory,  you  are  much  more  than  that 
to  me,  you  are  my  only  hope  and  my  whole  future. 
I  understood  that,  if  you  shared  my  successes,  you 
were  to  share  my  failure  too,  and  now  we  are  to 
separate  so  soon !" 

"You  criticize  my  conduct,"  said  she;  "you 
don't  love  me." 

Lucien  looked  at  her  with  such  a  piteous  expres- 
sion that  she  could  not  forbear  saying  to  him: 

"Dear  boy,  I  will  stay  here  if  you  wish;  we  shall 
ruin  ourselves  and  be  left  without  support.  But, 
when  we  are  equally  wretched  and  both  frowned 
upon  by  society;  when  failure,  for  we  must  con- 
sider  every   possibility,    has   driven    us    back   to 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  241 

Escarbas,  remember,  my  love,  that  I  prophesied 
that  result,  and  that  I  proposed  to  you  at  the  begin- 
ning to  win  success  according  to  the  laws  of  society 
by  bowing  to  those  laws." 

"Louise,"  he  replied,  kissing  her,  "I  am  terrified 
to  find  you  so  prudent.  Remember  that  I  am  a  child, 
that  I  yielded  absolutely  to  your  dear  will.  I  in- 
tended to  triumph  over  men  and  things  by  sheer 
force  of  will;  but  I  can  succeed  more  quickly  with 
your  aid  than  alone,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  owe 
all  my  fortune  to  you.  Forgive  me !  I  have  placed 
myself  too  entirely  in  your  hands,  not  to  fear  every- 
thing. To  me,  separation  is  the  herald  of  desertion ; 
and  desertion  is  death." 

"But,  my  dear  child,  society  asks  very  little  of 
you,"  she  replied.  "It  is  simply  a  question  of 
sleeping  here,  for  you  can  stay  with  me  all  day, 
and  no  one  will  have  a  word  to  say." 

A  caress  or  two  restored  Lucien's  tranquillity. 
An  hour  later,  Gentil  brought  a  note  from  Chatelet 
informing  Madame  de  Bargeton  that  he  had  found 
an  apartment  on  Rue  Neuve-de-Luxembourg.  She 
ascertained  the  location  of  that  street,  which  was 
not  very  far  from  Rue  de  l'Echelle,  and  remarked 
to  Lucien : 

"We  are  neighbors." 

Two  hours  later,  Louise  entered  a  carriage  sent 
by  Chatelet  to  take  her  to  her  new  quarters.  The 
apartment,  one  of  those  which  upholsterers  furnish 
and  let  to  rich  deputies  or  great  personages,  who 
have  come  to  Paris  for  a  short  time,  was  sumptuous 
16 


242  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

but  inconvenient.  Lucien  returned  about  eleven 
o'clock  to  his  little  Hotel  du  Gaillard-Bois,  having  as 
yet  seen  nothing  of  Paris  but  that  part  of  Rue 
Saint-Honore  that  lies  between  Rue  Neuve-de-Lux- 
embourg  and  Rue  de  PEchelle.  He  went  to  bed  in 
his  wretched  little  room,  which  he  could  not  refrain 
from  contrasting  with  Louise's  magnificent  suite. 
Just  as  he  left  Madame  de  Bargeton's,  Baron  du 
Chatelet  arrived  there,  returning  from  the  Ministry 
of  Foreign  Affairs  in  all  the  splendor  of  a  ball  cos- 
tume. He  came  to  advise  Madame  de  Bargeton  of 
the  agreements  he  had  made  in  her  behalf.  Louise 
was  disturbed,  her  luxurious  surroundings  terrified 
her.  Provincial  manners  had  reacted  upon  her  at 
last ;  she  had  become  very  fastidious  in  her  accounts ; 
she  was  so  careful  that  she  was  likely  to  be  con- 
sidered miserly  in  Paris.  She  had  brought  with 
her  an  order  on  the  receiver-general  for  twenty 
thousand  francs,  intending  that  sum  to  cover  her 
surplus  expenses  for  four  years;  she  already  feared 
that  she  would  not  have  enough  and  would  run  in 
debt.  Chatelet  informed  her  that  the  apartment 
would  cost  her  only  six  hundred  francs  a  month. 

"A  mere  trifle,"  he  said,  noticing  Nais's  start. 
"You  have  a  carriage  at  your  service  for  five  hun- 
dred francs  a  month,  making  fifty  louis  in  all.  You 
will  have  nothing  to  think  of  except  your  dress.  A 
lady  who  intends  to  go  into  the  best  society  cannot 
do  otherwise.  If  you  want  to  make  Monsieur  de 
Bargeton  a  receiver-general  or  obtain  a  place  for 
him  in  the  king's  household,  you  must  not  live  in 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  243 

poor  style.  Here  people  give  only  to  the  rich.  It's 
very  lucky,"  he  added,  "that  you  have  Gentil  with 
you  and  Albertine  to  dress  you,  for  servants  are  a 
ruinous  expense  in  Paris.  You  will  seldom  take 
your  meals  at  home,  with  the  start  in  society  you 
will  have." 

Madame  de  Bargeton  and  the  baron  talked  about 
Paris.  Chatelet  told  her  the  news  of  the  day,  the 
thousand  and  one  trifles  which  one  must  know 
under  penalty  of  not  being  considered  a  Parisian. 
He  advised  Nais  as  to  the  shops  she  should  patron- 
ize: he  mentioned  Herbault  for  caps,  Juliette  for 
hats  and  bonnets ;  he  gave  her  the  address  of  the 
only  dressmaker  who  could  fill  Victorine's  shoes;  in 
a  word,  he  impressed  upon  her  the  necessity  of  dis- 
angonleming  herself.  Then  he  launched  the  last 
shaft  of  wit  that  he  had  had  the  good  fortune  to 
conceive. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "I  shall  prob- 
ably have  a  box  at  some  theatre  or  other;  I  will 
come  and  take  you  and  Monsieur  de  Rubempre,  for 
you  will  permit  me  to  do  the  honors  of  Paris  to  both 
of  you." 

"He  has  more  generosity  in  his  nature  than  I 
supposed,"  said  Madame  de  Bargeton  to  herself, 
when  he  invited  Lucien. 

In  the  month  of  June,  ministers  do  not  know 
what  to  do  with  their  boxes  at  the  theatres;  the 
ministerial  deputies  and  their  constituents  are 
gathering  their  grapes  or  looking  after  their  crops, 
and  their  most  persistent  acquaintances  are  in  the 


244  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

country  or  traveling;  and  so,  at  that  season,  the 
best  boxes  in  the  Parisian  theatres  are  filled  with 
guests  of  curious  appearance,  whom  the  regular 
habitues  never  see  again  and  who  produce  upon 
the  audience  an  impression  of  worn-out  tapestry. 
It  had  occurred  to  Chatelet  that,  owing  to  that 
circumstance,  he  might,  without  spending  much 
money,  afford  Nais  the  entertainments  that  are  most 
attractive  to  provincials. 

The  next  morning,  the  first  time  that  he  called, 
Lucien  did  not  find  Louise.  She  had  gone  out  to 
make  some  indispensable  purchases.  She  had  gone 
out  to  take  counsel  with  the  grave  and  illustrious 
authorities  on  the  subject  of  feminine  garb  whom 
Chatelet  had  recommended  to  her,  for  she  had  written 
to  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  to  inform  her  of  her  ar- 
rival in  Paris.  Although  Madame  de  Bargeton  had 
that  confidence  in  herself  that  a  long-continued  habit 
of  domination  imparts,  she  had  a  curious  fear  of 
seeming  provincial.  She  had  sufficient  tact  to  realize 
how  much  the  future  relations  of  women  to  one 
another  depend  upon  first  impressions;  and, 
although  she  knew  that  she  was  capable  of  attaining 
the  level  of  superior  women  like  Madame  d'Espard, 
she  felt  that  she  needed  kindly  support  on  her  first 
appearance,  and  above  all  things,  she  desired  to 
neglect  no  element  of  success.  Thus  she  was  in- 
finitely grateful  to  Chatelet  for  having  pointed  out 
to  her  the  way  to  place  herself  in  harmony  with  the 
best  Parisian  society. 

By  a  strange  chance,  the  marchioness  was  in  a 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  245 

position  in  which  she  was  enchanted  to  render  a 
service  to  one  of  her  husband's  family.  Without 
apparent  cause,  the  Marquis  d'Espard  had  with- 
drawn from  the  world ;  he  paid  no  attention  to  mat- 
ters of  business,  to  political  affairs,  to  his  family  or 
to  his  wife.  Having  thus  become  her  own  mistress, 
the  marchioness  felt  the  necessity  of  being  smiled 
upon  by  society ;  she  was  therefore  glad  to  replace 
the  marquis  at  this  juncture  by  becoming  the 
patroness  of  his  family.  She  proposed  to  make  a 
great  parade  of  her  patronage  in  order  to  make  her 
husband's  fault  the  more  notorious.  In  the  course 
of  the  same  day  she  wrote  to  Madame  de  Bargeton, 
nee  Nlgrepelisse,  one  of  those  charming  notes  which 
are  so  prettily  worded  that  one  needs  time  to  dis- 
cover their  lack  of  depth: 

"She  was  overjoyed  that  circumstances  had 
brought  within  speaking  distance  a  person  of  whom 
she  had  often  heard,  and  whom  she  was  anxious  to 
know,  for  Parisian  friendships  were  not  so  enduring 
that  she  did  not  long  to  have  one  more  friend  to 
love  on  earth;  and  if  that  longing  were  not  to  be 
gratified,  it  would  simply  be  one  illusion  more  to 
be  buried  with  the  others.  She  wished  to  place 
herself  entirely  at  her  cousin's  disposal,  and  she 
would  go  to  see  her  at  once  were  it  not  for  a  slight 
indisposition  which  kept  her  at  home;  but  she  con- 
sidered herself  indebted  to  her  for  having  thought 
of  her." 

During  his  first  aimless  walk  along  the  boulevards 
and  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  Lucien,  like  all  newcomers, 


246  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

paid  much  more  heed  to  things  than  to  persons.  At 
Paris,  the  massiveness  of  everything  first  claims 
the  attention ;  the  magnificence  of  the  shops,  the 
height  of  the  buildings,  the  swarm  of  carriages,  the 
constant  contrast  between  extreme  luxury  and  ex- 
treme destitution  impress  one  first  of  all.  Amazed 
at  the  throng,  which  was  an  entirely  unfamiliar 
sight  to  him,  this  man  of  vivid  imagination  felt 
something  like  a  tremendous  belittling  of  himself. 
Those  persons  who  enjoy  any  sort  of  consideration 
in  the  provinces,  and  who  meet  at  every  step  there 
a  proof  of  their  eminence,  are  not  accustomed  to 
this  sudden,  total  loss  of  their  importance.  To  be 
somebody  in  one's  province  and  nobody  in  Paris 
are  two  states  which  require  some  transitionary 
stages ;  and  those  who  pass  too  abruptly  from  one 
to  the  other,  fall  into  a  dazed,  inanimate  condition. 
For  a  young  poet,  who  found  an  echo  of  all  his  feel- 
ings, a  confidante  for  all  his  thoughts,  a  heart  to 
share  his  lightest  sensations,  Paris  was  certain  to 
be  a  horrible  desert. 

Lucien  had  not  gone  to  get  his  fine  blue  coat,  so 
that  he  was  embarrassed  by  the  shabbiness,  not  to 
say  the  dilapidation  of  his  costume,  as  he  betook 
himself  to  Madame  de  Bargeton's  when  she  was 
likely  to  have  returned;  he  found  there  the  Baron 
du  Chatelet,  who  took  them  both  to  dine  at  the 
Rocher  de  Cancale.  Lucien,  bewildered  by  the  rapid 
movement  of  the  Parisian  vortex,  could  say  nothing 
to  Louise,  for  they  were  all  together  in  the  carriage; 
but  he  pressed  her  hand  and  she  replied  amicably 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  247 

to  all  the  thoughts  that  he  expressed  in  that  way. 
After  dinner,  Chatelet  took  his  two  guests  to  the 
Vaudeville.  Lucien  had  a  secret  feeling  of  disgust 
at  Chatelet's  appearance  in  Paris  and  cursed  the 
chance  that  brought  him  there.  The  superintendent 
of  imposts  attributed  his  trip  to  the  capital  to  his 
ambition;  he  hoped  to  be  appointed  general  secre- 
tary of  a  department,  and  to  enter  the  Council  of 
State  as  a  Master  of  Requests;  he  had  just  de- 
manded a  fulfilment  of  the  promises  that  had  been 
made  him,  for  such  a  man  as  he  could  not  remain 
superintendent  of  imposts;  he  preferred  to  hold  no 
office,  to  become  a  deputy,  to  re-enter  the  diplomatic 
service.  He  added  to  his  own  stature;  Lucien 
recognized  vaguely  in  this  old  beau,  the  superiority 
of  the  man  of  the  world  who  is  thoroughly  at  home 
in  Parisian  life;  he  was  especially  ashamed  of 
owing  his  pleasures  to  him.  Where  the  poet  was 
ill  at  ease  and  embarrassed,  the  former  secretary  of 
despatches  was  like  a  fish  in  water.  Chatelet 
smiled  at  the  hesitation,  the  amazement,  the  ques- 
tions, the  petty  errors  of  etiquette  which  lack  of 
familiarity  with  society  led  his  rival  to  commit, 
as  the  old  sea-dog  laughs  at  the  novices  who  have 
not  their  sea-legs  on. 

The  pleasure  that  Lucien  experienced  in  attend- 
ing the  play  in  Paris  for  the  first  time  atoned  for 
the  dissatisfaction  due  to  his  confusion.  The  even- 
ing was  a  noteworthy  one  because  of  his  secret 
repudiation  of  a  vast  number  of  his  ideas  concern- 
ing provincial  life.     His  mental  horizon  expanded, 


248  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

society  assumed  different  proportions.  The  prox- 
imity of  several  pretty  Parisian  women,  fashionably 
and  coquettishly  dressed,  called  his  attention  to 
the  antiquated  appearance  of  Madame  de  Bargeton's 
costume,  although  it  was  reasonably  ambitious; 
neither  the  materials  nor  the  colors  nor  the  cut  were 
in  the  prevailing  fashion.  The  style  of  wearing 
the  hair,  which  was  considered  so  bewitching  at 
Angouleme,  seemed  to  him  in  frightfully  bad  taste, 
compared  with  the  dainty  contrivances  by  which 
the  other  ladies  about  him  commended  themselves 
to  public  notice. 

"Will  she  always  be  like  that?"  he  said  to  him- 
self, unaware  that  the  day  had  been  employed  in 
arranging  a  transformation. 

In  the  provinces,  there  is  no  opportunity  to  select 
or  compare;  constant  familiarity  with  the  same 
faces  gives  them  a  conventional  sort  of  beauty.  A 
woman  who  is  considered  pretty  in  the  provinces 
does  not  attract  the  slightest  attention  when  trans- 
ported to  Paris,  for  she  is  beautiful  only  by  virtue  of 
the  proverb :  In  the  kingdom  of  the  blind,  the  one- 
eyed  are  kings.  Lucien's  eyes  made  the  comparison 
that  Madame  de  Bargeton  had  made  the  night  be- 
fore between  him  and  Chatelet.  On  her  part,  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  indulged  in  some  strange  reflec- 
tions concerning  her  lover.  Despite  his  extraordi- 
nary beauty,  the  poor  poet  had  no  style.  His 
redingote,  the  sleeves  of  which  were  too  short,  his 
shocking  provincial  gloves,  his  scanty  waistcoat, 
made   him  prodigiously  absurd  beside  the  young 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  249 

men  in  the  balcony;  Madame  de  Bargeton  thought 
him  a  pitiful  object  Chatelet,  unpretentiously 
interested  in  her  welfare,  and  watching  over  her 
with  an  attentiveness  that  betrayed  a  profound  pas- 
sion ;  Chatelet,  refined  and  as  thoroughly  at  ease  as 
an  actor  returning  to  the  boards  of  his  theatre, 
regained  in  two  days  all  the  ground  he  had  lost  in 
six  months.  Although  it  is  not  commonly  admitted 
that  the  sentiments  change  suddenly,  it  is  certain 
that  lovers  often  part  much  more  quickly  than  they 
came  together.  On  the  part  of  both  Madame  de 
Bargeton  and  Lucien,  a  season  of  disenchantment 
was  approaching  of  which  Paris  was  the  cause. 
Life  assumed  larger  proportions  there  in  the  eyes 
of  the  poet,  as  society  took  on  a  new  face  in  Louise's 
eyes.  In  either  case,  only  an  accident  was  needed 
to  cut  the  bonds  that  united  them.  The  blow,  ter- 
rible to  Lucien,  was  not  long  in  coming.  Madame 
de  Bargeton  set  down  the  poet  at  his  hotel  and 
returned  to  her  own  quarters,  accompanied  by 
Chatelet,  an  arrangement  exceedingly  distasteful 
to  the  poor  lover. 

"What  will  they  say  about  me?"  he  thought  as 
he  went  up  to  his  gloomy  bedroom. 

"That  poor  boy  is  terribly  tiresome,"  said  Chate- 
let with  a  smile,  when  the  carriage  door  was  closed. 

"That  is  true  of  all  those  who  have  a  world  of 
thoughts  in  the  heart  and  the  brain.  Men  who  have 
so  many  things  to  express  in  great  works  which 
they  have  long  meditated  over,  profess  a  certain  con- 
tempt for  conversation,  in  which  the  mind  lowers 


250  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

itself  by  making  itself  common,"  said  the  haughty 
Negrepelisse,  who  still  had  the  courage  to  defend 
Lucien,  less  on  Lucien's  account  than  her  own. 

"I  willingly  grant  you  that,"  said  the  baron, 
"but  we  are  living  with  persons,  not  with  books. 
I  see,  dear  Nais,  that  there  is  nothing  between  you 
as  yet,  and  I  am  overjoyed.  If  you  decide  to  import 
into  your  life  an  interest  that  you  have  lacked 
hitherto,  do  not,  I  implore  you,  let  it  be  for  this  pre- 
tended man  of  genius.  Suppose  you  should  be  mis- 
taken !  suppose  that,  a  few  days  hence,  upon 
comparing  him  with  men  of  genuine  talent,  with 
the  really  noteworthy  men  you  are  going  to  meet, 
you  should  see,  my  dear,  lovely  siren,  that  you 
have  taken  upon  your  dazzlingly  beautiful  back  and 
carried  into  port,  not  a  man  armed  with  a  tuneful 
lyre,  but  a  little  monkey,  unmannerly,  of  no  depth,  a 
conceited  fool,  who  may  have  wit  at  L'Houmeau, 
but  who  becomes  in  Paris  an  exceedingly  ordinary 
young  man  !  Why,  volumes  of  verses  are  published 
here  every  week,  the  poorest  of  which  is  worth 
more  than  the  whole  of  Monsieur  Chardon's  poetry. 
For  mercy's  sake,  wait  and  compare!  To-morrow, 
Friday,  there  is  a  performance  at  the  Opera,"  he 
said,  as  the  carriage  entered  Rue  Neuve-de-Luxem- 
bourg;  "Madame  d'Espard  has  the  box  of  the  first 
gentlemen  of  the  chamber  at  her  disposal,  and  will 
take  you,  I  doubt  not.  In  order  to  see  you  in  all 
your  glory,  I  will  go  and  sit  in  Madame  de  Serizy's 
box.     They  are  to  give  Les  Danaides." 

"Adieu,"  said  she. 


* 

The  next  day,  Madame  de  Bargeton  tried  to  ar- 
range a  suitable  morning  costume  in  which  to  call 
upon  her  cousin,  Madame  d'Espard.  It  was  slightly 
cold  and  she  could  find  nothing  better  among  her 
old-fashioned  Angouleme  properties  than  a  certain 
green  velvet  dress,  rather  richly  trimmed.  Lucien, 
too,  deemed  it  essential  to  go  and  get  his  famous 
blue  coat,  for  he  had  conceived  a  horror  of  his 
shabby  redingote,  and  he  determined  to  appear  on 
all  occasions  as  well  dressed  as  possible,  thinking 
that  he  might  meet  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  or  go  to 
her  house  unexpectedly.  He  took  a  cab  in  order  to 
bring  his  bundle  home  at  once.  In  two  hours'  time, 
he  spent  three  or  four  francs,  which  caused  him  to 
think  seriously  of  the  financial  side  of  life  in  Paris. 
After  he  had  reached  the  superlative  degree  in  the 
matter  of  toilet,  he  went  to  Rue  Neuve-de-Luxem- 
bourg,  and  there,  on  the  doorstep,  he  met  Gentil  ac- 
companied by  an  outrider  magnificently  beplumed. 

"1  was  on  my  way  to  you,  monsieur;  madame 
sends  you  this  little  note,"  said  Gentil,  who  did 
not  know  the  gradations  of  respect  in  vogue  in 
Paris,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  simple  provin- 
cial manners. 

The  footman  took  the  poet  for  a  servant.  Lucien 
unfolded  the  note,  from  which  he  learned  that  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  was  to  pass  the  day  with  Madame 

(25O 


252  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

la  Marquise  d'Espard  and  to  go  to  the  Opera  in  the 
evening;  but  she  bade  Lucien  be  there,  for  her 
cousin  allowed  her  to  offer  the  young  poet  a  place  in 
her  box,  being  delighted  to  afford  him  that  pleasure. 

"She  loves  me  then!  my  fears  are  unfounded," 
said  Lucien  to  himself;  "she will  present  me  to  her 
cousin  this  evening." 

He  leaped  for  joy  and  determined  to  pass  pleas- 
antly the  hours  that  separated  him  from  the  happy 
evening.  He  hurried  away  to  the  Tuileries,  think- 
ing that  he  would  walk  there  until  it  was  time  for 
him  to  go  and  dine  at  Very's.  Behold  Lucien  cara- 
coling and  prancing,  elated  with  happiness,  de- 
bouching upon  the  Terrasse  des  Feuillants,  and 
walking  across  it,  eying  the  promenaders,  the 
pretty  women  with  their  swains,  the  dandies,  two 
by  two,  arm  in  arm,  saluting  one  another  with  a 
glance  as  they  passed.  What  a  contrast  between 
that  terrace  and  Beaulieu!  The  birds  upon  that 
magnificent  perch  were  very  different  from  those  at 
Angouleme!  It  was  like  comparing  the  splendor  of 
coloring  that  characterizes  the  ornithological  species 
of  the  Indies  or  America  with  the  dull  colors  of 
European  birds. 

Lucien  passed  two  cruel  hours  at  the  Tuileries; 
he  indulged  in  some  serious  reflections  and  judged 
himself.  In  the  first  place,  he  did  not  see  a  frock- 
coat  upon  one  of  the  fashionable  dandies.  If  he  did 
occasionally  spy  a  man  in  a  frockcoat,  it  was  some 
old  man  to  whom  the  laws  of  fashion  did  not  apply, 
some  poor  devil  of  an  annuitant  from  the  Marais,  or 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  253 

a  clerk  from  some  office.  After  he  had  discovered 
that  there  was  a  difference  between  the  correct  garb 
for  the  evening,  the  poet  of  keen  emotions  and  pen- 
etrating glance  discovered  the  ugliness  of  his  cos- 
tume, the  anomalies  that  made  his  frockcoat 
ridiculous,  its  antiquated  cut,  its  faded  blue  color, 
its  shockingly  disgraceful  collar,and  its  skirts,  which 
had  been  worn  too  long  and  lapped  over  each  other 
in  front;  the  buttons  were  rusty  and  the  seams 
marked  with  deadly  white  lines.  His  waistcoat 
was  too  short,  also,  and  so  grotesquely  provincial 
that,  in  order  to  hide  it,  he  abruptly  buttoned  his 
coat.  Lastly,  he  saw  no  nankeen  trousers  except 
upon  the  common  people.  The  fashionable  folk 
wore  lovely  fancy  stuffs,  or  else  the  always  correct 
white!  Moreover,  all  the  trousers  were  worn  with 
straps,  whereas  his  hardly  reached  the  heels  of  his 
boots,  for  which  the  frayed  edges  of  the  stuff  mani- 
fested a  violent  antipathy.  He  had  a  white  cravat, 
the  ends  of  which  were  embroidered  by  his  sister, 
who  had  lost  no  time,  after  seeing  that  Monsieur  du 
Hautoy  and  Monsieur  de  Chandour  wore  ties  of  that 
description,  in  making  some  of  them  for  her 
brother.  Not  only  did  no  one  save  serious-minded 
persons,  old  financiers  and  stern-faced  magistrates, 
wear  white  cravats  in  the  morning,  but  Lucien  saw 
through  the  iron  fence  on  the  sidewalk  on  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  a  grocer's  boy  with  a  basket  on  his  head  and 
two  floating  cravat  ends  embroidered  by  some 
charming  grisette.  That  sight  stabbed  Lucien  to 
the  heart,  that  still  ill-defined  organ  in  which  our 


254  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

sensitiveness  takes  refuge  and  upon  which  men  have 
laid  their  hands,  in  moments  of  excessive  joy  as 
well  as  of  excessive  sorrow,  since  sentiments  have 
existed  in  the  world. 

Do  not  tax  this  narrative  with  puerility.  Of 
course,  to  the  wealthy  who  have  never  known  suf- 
fering of  this  sort,  there  is  something  paltry  and 
incredible  about  it;  but  the  agony  of  the  unhappy 
is  no  less  deserving  of  attention  than  the  crises  that 
revolutionize  the  lives  of  the  powerful  and  privi- 
leged ones  of  earth.  Indeed,  do  we  not  find  as 
much  grief  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other?  Suffer- 
ing magnifies  everything.  Change  the  conditions, 
if  you  please;  in  place  of  a  costume  of  more  or  less 
magnificence,  take  a  ribbon,  a  mark  of  favor,  a 
title.  Have  not  those  apparently  trivial  things 
been  the  torment  of  many  a  brilliant  existence? 
Moreover,  the  question  of  costume  is  one  of  vast 
moment  to  those  who  wish  to  appear  to  have  what 
they  have  not ;  for  that  is  often  the  best  means  of 
procuring  it  later.  Lucien  felt  a  cold  perspiration 
break  out  upon  him  when  he  thought  that  he  had 
proposed  to  appear  in  the  evening,  in  that  costume, 
before  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  the  kinswoman  of 
one  of  the  first  gentlemen  of  the  chamber  to  the  king, 
before  a  woman  whose  salon  was  frequented  by  the 
most  eminent  men  in  all  walks  of  life,  by  the 
choicest  minds  of  the  age. 

"I  look  like  an  apothecary's  son,  a  genuine 
counter-jumper!"  he  said  to  himself,  raging  in- 
wardly   as    he    watched    the    graceful,    dandified, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  255 

fashionable  young  men  of  Faubourg  Saint-Germain, 
all  of  whom  had  a  manner  peculiar  to  themselves, 
which  made  them  all  resemble  one  another  in  their 
slender  figures,  their  noble  bearing  and  their  general 
expression;  and  all  differ  from  one  another  in  the 
frames  that  each  had  selected  in  which  to  display 
his  charms.  All  of  them  made  the  most  of  their 
good  points  by  a  sort  of  stage  setting  which  young 
men  in  Paris  understand  as  well  as  women.  Lucien 
inherited  from  his  mother  the  same  invaluable 
physical  qualities  whose  privileges  were  flaunted 
before  his  eyes  by  these  dandies ;  but  the  gold  was 
in  the  quartz  and  still  unworked.  His  hair  was 
badly  cut.  Instead  of  keeping  his  head  erect  by  a 
flexible  whalebone,  he  felt  all  drawn  together  in  his 
uncomfortable  shirt  collar;  and  his  cravat  offered 
no  resistance  to  his  tendency  to  hang  his  humiliated 
head.  What  woman  could  have  imagined  the  pretty 
feet  that  were  hidden  in  the  shapeless  boots  he  had 
brought  from  Angouleme?  What  young  man  would 
have  envied  his  graceful  figure  disguised  in  the  blue 
bag  he  had  hitherto  believed  to  be  a  coat?  He  saw 
fascinating  buttons  upon  shirts  that  fairly  gleamed 
with  whiteness;  his  own  was  rusty!  All  the  fash- 
ionable dandies  were  elegantly  gloved,  and  he  wore 
regular  gendarme's  gloves!  One  toyed  with  a 
beautifully  mounted  cane.  Another  wore  dainty 
little  gold  buttons  in  his  wristbands.  One  of  them, 
as  he  talked  with  a  lady,  swung  a  pretty  hunting 
crop,  and  his  baggy  trousers  slightly  spotted  with 
mud,  his  glistening  spurs  and  his  closely  buttoned 


256  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

riding  coat,  showed  that  he  was  about  to  mount  one 
of  the  two  horses  held  by  a  tiger  no  larger  than 
one's  fist.  Another  took  from  his  pocket  a  flat 
watch  of  the  size  of  a  hundred-sou  piece,  and 
looked  at  the  time,  like  a  man  who  was  before  or 
behind  the  hour  fixed  for  an  appointment.  As  he 
noticed  these  pretty  trifles,  whose  existence  he  had 
not  suspected,  Lucien  began  to  conceive  some  idea 
of  the  multitude  of  necessary  superfluities,  and  he 
shuddered  as  he  thought  that  it  must  require  an 
enormous  capital  to  ply  the  trade  of  a  fashionable 
bachelor !  The  more  he  admired  these  young  men 
with  their  joyous,  off-hand  manners,  the  more  con- 
scious he  became  of  his  own  strange  manner,  the 
manner  of  a  man  who  has  no  idea  whither  the  road 
leads  that  he  is  following,  who  does  not  know  the 
Palais-Royal  when  he  is  touching  it,  and  who  asks 
the  whereabouts  of  the  Louvre  from  a  passer-by,  to 
receive  the  answer :  "You  are  there  now."  Lu- 
cien felt  that  an  abyss  lay  between  him  and  those 
others ;  he  asked  himself  by  what  means  he  could 
cross  it,  for  he  was  determined  to  make  himself  like 
those  slender  and  refined  Parisian  youths.  All  the 
young  patricians  were  constantly  bowing  to  divinely 
dressed  and  divinely  beautiful  women,  for  a  single 
kiss  from  whom  Lucien  would  gladly  have  been  cut 
in  pieces,  like  the  Comtesse  de  Kcenigsmark's  page. 
In  the  recesses  of  his  memory,  Louise  appeared  like 
an  old  woman,  in  comparison  with  those  queens  of 
beauty.  He  met  several  of  those  women  whose 
names  will  appear  in  the  history  of  the  nineteenth 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  257 

century,  and  whose  wit  and  beauty  and  love  will  be 
no  less  famous  than  those  of  the  queens  of  the  past. 
He  passed  one  sublime  creature,  Mademoiselle  des 
Touches,  so  well  known  under  the  name  of  Camille 
Maupin,  an  eminent  writer,  as  remarkable  for  her 
beauty  as  for  her  superior  mind,  whose  name  was 
repeated  in  undertones  by  all  the  promenaders, 
both  young  men  and  women. 

"Ah!"  said  he  to  himself,  "there  is  poesy." 
What  was  Madame  de  Bargeton  beside  that  angel, 
radiant  with  youth  and  hope  and  future  renown, 
whose  smile  was  so  sweet,  and  whose  black  eye  was 
as  vast  as  the  vault  of  heaven,  as  ardent  as  the 
sun?  She  was  laughing  and  talking  with  Madame 
de  Firmiani,  one  of  the  most  delightful  women  in 
Paris.  A  voice  cried  to  him:  "Intellect  is  the 
lever  with  which  the  world  is  moved. ' '  But  another 
voice  answered  that  the  fulcrum  of  the  lever  of  in- 
tellect is  money.  He  did  not  choose  to  remain  amid 
his  ruins  and  on  the  stage  of  his  discomfiture,  so  he 
betook  himself  to  the  Palais-Royal,  having  first 
asked  where  it  was,  for  he  did  not  as  yet  know  the 
topography  of  his  own  quarter.  He  went  to  Very's, 
and  ordered,  as  an  initiation  into  the  pleasures  of 
Paris,  a  dinner  that  somewhat  allayed  his  chagrin. 
A  bottle  of  Bordeaux,  Ostend  oysters,  a  fish,  a 
partridge,  an  ice  and  some  fruit  were  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  his  desires.  He  relished  his  little  dissipa- 
tion, thinking  how  he  would  demonstrate  his  wit  in 
the  evening  in  the  Marquise  d'Espard's  presence, 
and  atone  for  the  shabbiness  of  his  anomalous  garb 
17 


258  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

by  the  manifestation  of  his  intellectual  powers.  He 
was  awakened  from  his  dreams  by  the  footing  of  his 
account,  which  despoiled  him  of  the  fifty  francs 
with  which  he  expected  to  do  a  great  deal  in  Paris. 
That  one  dinner  cost  as  much  as  he  spent  in  a 
whole  month  at  Angouleme.  So  he  respectfully 
closed  the  door  of  that  palace,  thinking  that  he 
would  never  again  put  his  foot  therein. 

"Eve  was  right,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  walked 
homeward  through  the  stone  gallery,  in  order  to 
replenish  his  purse;  "Paris  prices  differ  from  prices 
at  L'Houmeau. " 

On  his  way  he  gazed  admiringly  into  the  tailors' 
shops,  and,  as  he  remembered  the  costumes  he  had 
seen  in  the  morning,  he  cried: 

"No,  I  will  not  appear  before  Madame  d'Espard 
in  such  a  rig  as  this!" 

He  ran  like  a  deer  to  the  Gaillard-Bois,  went  up 
to  his  room,  took  a  hundred  crowns  and  hurried 
back  to  the  Palais-Royal  to  refit  from  head  to  foot. 
He  had  noticed  the  shops  of  bootmakers,  haber- 
dashers, vestmakers  and  hairdressers  at  the  Palais- 
Royal,  and  his  future  elegance  was  scattered  through 
ten  establishments.  The  first  tailor  he  visited 
made  him  try  on  as  many  coats  as  he  would  consent 
to  try  on,  and  persuaded  him  that  they  were  all  in 
the  latest  style.  Lucien,  when  he  took  his  leave, 
possessed  a  green  coat,  white  trousers  and  a  fancy 
waistcoat,  all  for  the  sum  of  two  hundred  francs. 
He  soon  found  a  very  neat  pair  of  boots  that  fitted 
him    perfectly.      Finally,   after  he   had  purchased 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  259 

everything  he  required,  he  sent  for  the  hairdresser 
to  come  to  his  room,  where  each  dealer  brought  the 
goods  he  had  bought.  At  seven  in  the  evening,  he 
called  a  cab  and  was  driven  to  the  Opera,  curled 
like  an  image  of  Saint- Jean  in  a  procession,  well 
waistcoated,  well  cravated,  but  a  little  uncomfort- 
able in  the  sort  of  mould  in  which  he  was  incased 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Following  Madame  de 
Bargeton's  directions,  he  asked  for  the  box  assigned 
to  the  first  gentleman-in-waiting.  Seeing  a  man 
whose  borrowed  elegance  gave  him  the  air  of  the 
best  man  at  a  wedding,  the  ticket-taker  requested 
him  to  show  his  ticket. 

"1  have  none." 

"Then  you  cannot  go  in,"  was  the  sharp  reply. 

"But  I  am  invited  by  Madame  d'Espard,"  he 
said. 

"We  are  not  supposed  to  know  that,"  said  the 
attendant,  exchanging  an  imperceptible  smile  with 
his  associates. 

At  that  moment  a  coupe  drove  under  the  peristyle. 
An  outrider,  whom  Lucien  did  not  recognize,  let 
down  the  step  and  two  ladies  in  full  dress  alighted. 
Lucien,  who  did  not  wish  to  receive  from  the  ticket- 
taker  an  impertinent  request  to  stand  aside,  made 
room  for  the  two  ladies. 

"But  this  lady  is  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  whom 
you  claim  to  know,  monsieur,"  said  the  ticket-taker 
ironically  to  Lucien. 

Lucien  was  the  more  abashed  because  Madame 
de  Bargeton  did  not  seem  to  recognize  him  in  his 


260  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

new  plumage;   but,  when  he  walked  toward  her, 
she  smiled  at  him  and  said: 

"This  is  extraordinary;  come!" 

The  attendants  had  become  serious  once  more. 
Lucien  followed  Madame  de  Bargeton,  who,  as  they 
ascended  the  spacious  staircase  of  the  Opera,  pre- 
sented her  Rubempre  to  her  cousin.  The  box  of  the 
first  gentleman-in-waiting  is  in  one  of  the  flattened 
corners  at  the  rear  of  the  hall ;  there  one  can  be 
seen  from  and  can  see  all  parts  of  the  great  audito- 
rium. Lucien  took  a  chair  behind  Madame  de, 
Bargeton,  well  pleased  to  sit  in  the  shadow. 

"Monsieur  de  Rubempre,"  said  the  marchioness, 
in  a  flattering  tone,  "this  is  your  first  visit  to  the 
Opera;  you  must  see  all  there  is  to  be  seen,  so  take 
this  chair  at  the  front  of  the  box;  we  will  excuse 
you." 

Lucien  obeyed;  the  first  act  of  the  opera  was  just 
coming  to  an  end. 

"You  have  employed  your  time  to  good  ad- 
vantage," said  Louise  in  his  ear,  amazed  at  the 
change  in  Lucien's  appearance. 

Louise  remained  the  same.  The  proximity  of  a 
woman  of  fashion,  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  the  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  of  Paris,  was  so  disadvantageous 
to  her;  the  brilliant  Parisian  brought  into  such  bold 
relief  the  imperfections  of  the  woman  from  the  prov- 
inces, that  Lucien,  doubly  enlightened  by  the 
gorgeous  company  assembled  in  that  superb  hall, 
and  by  his  eminent  hostess,  at  last  saw  Anais  de 
Negrepelisse  as  she  really  was,  as  the  people  of 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  261 

Paris  saw  her:  tall,  thin,  pimply,  faded,  more  than 
red-haired,  angular,  stiff,  formal,  conceited,  provin- 
cial in  her  speech,  and  above  all  things,  badly 
dressed!  In  Paris  a  dress  may  be  old  and  still  its 
folds  will  attest  its  owner's  taste;  you  can  under- 
stand it  and  divine  what  it  once  was;  but  an  old 
provincial  dress  is  an  inexplicable  mystery,  it  is 
laughable.  The  dress  and  its  wearer  were  alike  de- 
void of  charm  and  freshness,  the  velvet  was  mottled 
like  the  complexion.  Lucien,  ashamed  of  having 
loved  such  a  cuttle-bone,  determined  that  he  would 
take  advantage  of  Louise's  first  spasm  of  virtue  to 
leave  her.  His  excellent  eyesight  enabled  him  to 
see  all  the  opera-glasses  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
aristocratic  box,  par  excellence.  The  most  fashion- 
able women  were  certainly  scrutinizing  Madame  de 
Bargeton,  for  they  all  smiled  as  they  talked  to  one 
another. 

If  Madame  d'Espard  gathered,  from  the  gestures 
and  smiles  of  those  of  her  own  sex,  the  source  of 
their  amusement,  she  was  entirely  indifferent  to 
it.  In  the  first  place,  everyone  was  sure  to  recog- 
nize in  her  companion  the  poor  kinswoman  from  the 
provinces,  with  whom  every  Parisian  family  is 
likely  to  be  afflicted.  Then,  too,  her  cousin  had 
mentioned  the  subject  of  her  toilet,  expressing  some 
apprehension  in  that  direction;  she  reassured  her, 
for  she  saw  that  when  Anais  was  once  properly 
dressed,  she  would  soon  acquire  Parisian  manners. 
If  Madame  de  Bargeton  lacked  practice,  she  had  the 
inborn  hauteur  of  a  woman  of  noble  birth,  and  the 


262  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

indefinable  something  that  may  be  called  race.  On 
the  following  Monday,  therefore,  she  would  have 
her  revenge.  Moreover,  when  it  was  once  known 
that  her  guest  was  her  cousin,  the  marchioness 
knew  that  the  public  would  suspend  its  raillery  and 
await  an  opportunity  to  examine  her  more  closely 
before  passing  judgment  upon  her. 

Lucien  did  not  foresee  the  change  that  would  be 
wrought  in  Louise  by  a  scarf  wound  about  her  neck, 
a  pretty  dress,  a  fashionable  arrangement  of  her  hair 
and  Madame  d'Espard's  advice.  Even  as  they  as- 
cended the  stairs,  the  marchioness  told  her  cousin 
not  to  carry  her  handkerchief  unfolded  in  her  hand. 
Good  or  bad  taste  depends  upon  innumerable  little 
trifles  of  this  sort,  which  a  bright  woman  grasps  at 
once  and  which  some  women  will  never  understand. 
Madame  de  Bargeton,  whose  will  was  of  the  best, 
was  more  clever  than  she  required  to  be  to  discover 
wherein  she  went  astray.  Madame  d'Espard,  sure 
that  her  pupil  would  do  her  credit,  did  not  shirk  the 
task  of  moulding  her.  In  fact,  an  agreement  had 
been  entered  into  by  the  two  women,  and  cemented 
by  their  mutual  interests.  Madame  de  Bargeton  had 
suddenly  become  a  devoted  worshiper  of  the  idol  of 
the  day,  whose  manners,  wit  and  surroundings  had 
fascinated,  dazzled,  enchanted  her.  She  had  recog- 
nized in  Madame  d'Espard  the  occult  power  of  the 
ambitious  great  lady,  and  had  said  to  herself  that 
she  would  strive  to  become  the  satellite  of  that 
planet:  she  had  therefore  frankly  expressed  her 
admiration.     The  marchioness  was  touched  by  her 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  263 

undisguised  conquest,  and  had  at  once  taken  a  deep 
interest  in  her  cousin,  finding  her  to  be  poor  and 
unfriended;  she  had  shrewdly  laid  her  plans  to 
found  a  school  of  her  own  by  having  a  pupil,  and 
she  asked  nothing  better  than  to  acquire  in  Madame 
de  Bargeton  a  sort  of  lady-in-waiting,  a  slave  who 
would  sing  her  praises,  a  treasure  rarer  among 
Parisian  women  than  an  honest  critic  in  the  literary 
world.  But  the  general  curiosity  became  too  per- 
ceptible for  the  newcomer  not  to  notice  it,  and  Ma- 
dame d'Espard  determined  courteously  to  mislead 
her  as  to  the  cause  of  the  excitement. 

"If  they  come  and  call  on  us,"  she  said,  "per- 
haps we  shall  find  out  to  what  we  owe  the  honor 
of  such  earnest  attention  on  the  part  of  all  these 
ladies." 

"I  strongly  suspect  my  old  velvet  dress  and  my 
Angoumois  figure  of  amusing  the  Parisians, "  said 
Madame  de  Bargeton,  laughing. 

"No,  it's  not  you;  there's  something  I  can't  un- 
derstand," she  added,  turning  to  the  poet,  whom 
she  then  looked  at  for  the  first  time  and  seemed  to 
think  strangely  attired. 

"There's  Monsieur  du  Chatelet, "  said  Lucien  at 
that  moment,  raising  his  finger  to  point  to  Madame 
de  Serizy's  box,  where  the  old  beau,  thoroughly 
renovated,  had  just  made  his  appearance. 

At  that  gesture,  Madame  de  Bargeton  bit  her  lips 
with  annoyance,  for  the  marchioness  could  not  re- 
strain a  glance  and  a  smile  of  amazement,  which 
said  so  contemptuously:     "Where  does  this  young 


264  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

man  come  from  ?"  that  Louise  felt  deeply  humiliated 
in  her  love,  the  most  painful  sensation  a  French 
woman  can  experience,  and  one  that  she  never  for- 
gives her  lover  for  causing.  In  that  society,  where 
trifles  are  magnified  into  great  things,  a  gesture,  a 
word,  may  ruin  the  chances  of  a  beginner.  The 
principal  advantage  of  the  fine  manners  and  the 
tone  of  good  society  is  to  present  a  harmonious 
whole,  in  which  everything  is  so  perfectly  blended 
that  nothing  offends.  The  very  persons  who, 
whether  it  be  through  ignorance  or  because  their 
thoughts  are  engrossed  by  something  else  and  fail 
to  observe  the  laws  of  this  science,  will  all  agree 
that  a  single  discordant  note  is,  as  it  is  in  music,  a 
complete  nullification  of  the  art  itself,  for  all  its 
conditions  must  be  fulfilled  to  the  least  detail,  under 
pain  of  ceasing  to  exist  at  all. 

"Who  is  that  gentleman?"  asked  the  marchion- 
ess, indicating  Chatelet.  "Do  you  know  Madame 
de  Serizy?" 

"Ah!  so  that  is  the  famous  Madame  de  Serizy, 
who  has  had  so  many  adventures  and  still  is  re- 
ceived everywhere!" 

"An  unheard-of  thing,  my  dear,"  the  marchion- 
ess replied,  "a  thing  capable  of  explanation,  but 
unexplained!  The  most  redoubtable  men  are  her 
friends,  and  why  ?  No  one  dares  probe  the  mystery. 
Is  yonder  gentleman  the  lion  of  Angouleme?" 

"Why,  Monsieur  le  Baron  du  Chatelet,"  said 
Ana'is,  through  vanity  bestowing  upon  her  adorer 
in  Paris  the  title  she  denied  him  in  the  country, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  265 

"is  a  man  who  has  been  much  talked  of.  He  is 
Monsieur  de  Montr  iveau's  traveling  companion." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  marchioness,  "I  never  hear 
that  name  without  thinking  of  the  poor  Duchesse 
de  Langeais,  who  has  disappeared  like  a  shooting 
star. — There,"  she  continued,  pointing  to  another 
box,  "are  Monsieur  de  Rastignac  and  Madame  de 
Nucingen,  the  wife  of  a  contractor,  banker,  agent, 
broker  on  a  large  scale,  a  man  who  forces  himself 
into  Parisian  society  by  virtue  of  his  wealth,  and 
is  said  to  be  by  no  means  scrupulous  as  to  methods 
of  increasing  it;  he  takes  unheard-of  pains  to  make 
people  believe  in  his  fidelity  to  the  Bourbons;  he 
has  already  tried  to  be  introduced  to  my  house.  By 
taking  Madame  de  Langeais's  box,  his  wife  thought 
she  would  inherit  her  charms,  her  wit  and  her  suc- 
cess! The  old  fable  of  the  jackdaw  in  peacock's 
feathers!" 

"How  do  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Rastignac, 
whom  we  know  to  have  less  than  three  thousand 
francs  a  year,  manage  to  support  their  son  in 
Paris  ?"  said  Lucien  to  Madame  de  Bargeton,  amazed 
at  the  style  and  luxury  displayed  in  the  young 
man's  dress. 

"It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  come  from  Angouleme," 
said  the  marchioness  satirically,  without  taking  her 
opera-glass  from  her  eyes. 

Lucien  did  not  understand;  he  was  entirely  en- 
grossed in  looking  at  the  boxes,  divining  the  criti- 
cisms that  were  being  made  upon  Madame  de 
Bargeton,    and    the    curiosity    of    which    he   was 


266  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

himself  the  object  For  her  part,  Louise  was 
deeply  mortified  by  the  marchioness's  lack  of  ap- 
preciation of  Lucien's  beauty. 

"Then  he  can't  be  as  handsome  as  1  thought!" 
she  said  to  herself. 

From  that  point,  it  was  but  a  step  to  thinking 
that  he  was  less  clever.  The  curtain  fell.  Cha- 
telet,  who  had .  come  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  whose  box  was  quite  near 
Madame  d'Espard's,  bowed  to  Madame  de  Bargeton, 
who  replied  with  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head. 
A  woman  of  the  world  sees  everything,  and  the 
marchioness  noticed  Chatelet's  superior  bearing. 
At  that  juncture,  four  persons  entered  the  marchion- 
ess's box,  one  after  another — four  Parisian  celeb- 
rities. 

The  first  was  Monsieur  de  Marsay,  a  man  famous 
for  the  passions  he  aroused,  and  especially  remark- 
able for  his  girlish  beauty,  soft  and  effeminate,  but 
redeemed  by  a  fixed,  calm  glance,  as  fierce  and  un- 
compromising as  a  tiger's;  he  was  loved  and  feared. 
Lucien,  too,  was  handsome;  but  his  glance  was  so 
gentle,  his  blue  eye  so  clear,  that  he  did  not  seem 
capable  of  the  strength  and  power  which  attract 
women.  Moreover,  nothing  had  as  yet  shown  the 
poet's  temper,  while  De  Marsay  had  a  flow  of  wit, 
a  certainty  of  pleasing,  a  costume  adapted  to  his 
character,  which  crushed  all  his  rivals.  Imagine 
how  Lucien,  grim,  solemn,  stiff  and  new  as  his 
clothes,  would  appear  beside  him !  De  Marsay  had 
earned  the  right  to  say  impertinent  things  by  the 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  267 

wit  he  imparted  to  them  and  by  the  charming  man- 
ners with  which  he  accompanied  them.  The  mar- 
chioness's reception  made  clear  at  once  to  Madame 
de  Bargeton  the  power  of  the  man. 

The  second  was  one  of  the  two  Vandenesses,  he 
who  had  caused  the  Lady  Dudley  scandal,  a  sweet- 
tempered,  clever,  modest  young  man,  whose  success 
was  due  to  qualities  diametrically  opposed  to  those 
upon  which  De  Marsay  plumed  himself,  and  whom 
the  marchioness's  cousin,  Madame  de  Mortsauf,  had 
warmly  recommended  to  her. 

The  third  was  General  de  Montriveau,  author  of 
the  ruin  of  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais. 

The  fourth  was  Monsieur  de  Canalis,  one  of  the 
most  illustrious  poets  of  that  epoch,  a  young  man 
still  at  the  dawn  of  his  renown,  who,  prouder  of 
being  a  gentleman  than  of  his  talent,  posed  as  Ma- 
dame d'Espard's  devoted  slave,  in  order  to  conceal 
his  passion  for  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu.  Despite 
his  charming  manners,  somewhat  marred  by  affec- 
tation, his  friends  already  suspected  the  soaring 
ambition  that  led  him  at  a  later  period  into  the 
tempests  of  political  life.  His  almost  girlish  beauty 
and  his  flattering  ways  hardly  disguised  his  pro- 
found selfishness  and  the  constant  scheming  of  an 
existence  which  was  at  this  time  an  unsolved  prob- 
lem;  but  his  choice  of  Madame  de  Chaulieu,  a 
woman  past  forty,  secured  for  him  the  favor  of  the 
court,  the  approbation  of  Faubourg  Saint-Germain, 
and  the  insults  of  the  liberals,  who  called  him  a 
poet  of  the  sacristy. 


268  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

When  she  saw  those  four  noteworthy  faces,  Ma- 
dame de  Bargeton  understood  the  slight  attention 
the  marchioness  had  paid  to  Lucien.  And  when  the 
conversation  began,  when  each  of  those  keen,  subtle 
minds  made  itself  manifest  by  remarks  that  con- 
tained more  sense  and  more  depth  than  all  that 
Anais  heard  in  a  month  in  Angouleme;  when  the 
great  poet  especially  uttered  vibrating  words  that 
reflected  the  positive  character  of  the  time,  but 
gilded  with  poesy,  she  realized  the  truth  of  what 
Chatelet  had  said  to  her  the  day  before:  Lucien 
was  nothing  at  all.  One  and  all  glanced  at  the 
unhappy  stranger  with  such  cruel  indifference,  his 
position  was  so  exactly  that  of  a  foreigner  unac- 
quainted with  the  language,  that  the  marchioness 
took  pity  on  him. 

"Permit  me,  monsieur,"  she  said  to  Canalis, 
"to  present  Monsieur  de  Rubempre.  You  occupy 
too  lofty  a  position  in  the  literary  world  not  to  wel- 
come a  beginner.  Monsieur  de  Rubempre  is  just 
from  Angouleme,  and  he  will  need  your  patronage, 
I  doubt  not,with  those  whose  business  it  is  to  bring 
genius  to  light.  He  has  as  yet  no  enemies  to  make 
his  fortune  by  attacking  him.  Would  it  not  be  an 
undertaking  so  original  as  to  be  worth  trying,  to 
obtain  for  him  through  friendship,  what  you  owe 
to  hatred?" 

The  four  young  men  looked  at  Lucien  while  the 
marchioness  was  speaking.  Although  he  was  with- 
in two  feet  of  the  newcomer,  De  Marsay  took  his 
monocle  to  look  at  him;  his  eyes  went  from  Lucien 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  269 

to  Madame  de  Bargeton  and  from  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton  to  Lucien,  coupling  them  together  with  a  sneer- 
ing glance  that  mortified  them  both  cruelly;  he 
looked  them  over  as  if  they  were  two  strange  ani- 
mals, and  he  smiled.  His  smile  was  a  dagger- 
thrust  to  the  provincial  great  man.  Felix  de 
Vandenesse  assumed  a  charitable  expression.  Mon- 
triveau  bestowed  a  glance  upon  Lucien  that  probed 
him  to  the  marrow. 

"Madame,"  said  Canalis,  bowing,  "I  will  obey 
you,  notwithstanding  the  personal  interest  that  in- 
clines us  not  to  assist  our  rivals;  but  you  have 
accustomed  us  to  miracles." 

"Very  well;  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany at  dinner  with  Monsieur  de  Rubempre  on 
Monday;  you  can  then  talk  over  literary  matters 
more  comfortably  than  here;  I  will  try  to  collect 
some  of  the  tyrants  of  literature  and  the  celebrities 
who  take  it  under  their  wing;  the  author  of  Ourika 
and  some  well-inclined  young  poets. 

"Madame  la  Marquise,"  said  De  Marsay,  "if  you 
take  monsieur  under  your  protection  for  his  wit,  I 
will  take  him  under  mine  for  his  beauty;  I  will 
give  him  some  good  advice  which  will  make  him 
the  luckiest  dandy  in  Paris.  After  that  he  can  be 
a  poet  if  he  chooses." 

Madame  de  Bargeton  thanked  the  marchioness  by 
a  glance  overflowing  with  gratitude. 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  were  jealous  of  bright 
men,"  said  Montriveau  to  De  Marsay.  "Happiness 
kills  poets." 


270  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

"Is  that  why  monsieur  is  anxious  to  marry?" 
said  the  dandy,  addressing  Canalis,  in  order  to  see 
if  Madame  d'Espard  would  be  hit  by  the  question. 

Canalis  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  Madame 
d'Espard,  who  was  Madame  de  Chaulieu's  niece, 
began  to  laugh. 

Lucien,  who  felt  in  his  new  clothes  like  an  Egyp- 
tian mummy  in  its  sheath,  was  ashamed  to  make 
no  reply.  At  last  he  said  to  the  marchioness  in  his 
soft  voice : 

"Your  kindness,  madame,  dooms  me  to  have 
nothing  but  success." 

At  that  moment  Chatelet,  seizing  the  opportunity 
by  the  hair  to  secure  Montriveau,  one  of  the  kings 
of  Paris,  as  his  sponsor  with  the  marchioness,  en- 
tered the  box.  He  bowed  to  Madame  de  Bargeton 
and  begged  Madame  d'Espard  to  forgive  the  liberty 
he  took  in  invading  her  box;  it  was  so  long  since 
he  had  seen  his  traveling  companion!  It  was  the 
first  time  he  and  Montriveau  had  met  since  they 
parted  in  the  desert. 

"To  part  in  the  desert  and  meet  at  the  Opera!" 
said  Lucien. 

"It's  a  genuine  stage  meeting,"  said  Canalis. 

Montriveau  presented  the  Baron  du  Chatelet  to 
the  marchioness,  and  the  marchioness  accorded  the 
ex-secretary  of  despatches  to  her  Imperial  Highness 
the  more  flattering  welcome,  because  she  had  seen 
that  he  was  well  received  in  three  boxes,  because 
Madame  de  Serizy  admitted  none  but  available 
men,    and    lastly    because    he    was    Montriveau's 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  271 

traveling  companion.  This  last  title  to  her  regard 
was  so  powerful  that  Madame  de  Bargeton  could  see 
in  the  tone,  the  expressions  and  the  manners  of  the 
four  men  that  they  recognized  Chatelet  as  one  of 
themselves  without  hesitation.  The  sultan-like 
manner  adopted  by  Chatelet  in  the  provinces  was 
at  once  explained  to  Na'is.  Lastly  Chatelet  recog- 
nized Lucien  and  gave  him  one  of  those  cool,  abrupt 
nods  by  which  one  man  casts  discredit  upon  another, 
indicating  to  his  fellows  the  infinitely  humble  posi- 
tion that  that  other  occupies  in  society.  He  accom- 
panied his  salutation  with  a  sardonic  smile,  which 
seemed  to  say :  "How  does  he  happen  to  be  here  ?" 
Chatelet's  manner  was  fully  understood,  for  De 
Marsay  leaned  over  to  Montriveau  and  whispered 
in  his  ear,  loud  enough  for  the  baron  to  hear: 

"Ask  him  who  this  extraordinary  young  man  is, 
who  looks  like  a  manikin  at  a  tailor's  door." 

Chatelet  spoke  for  a  moment  aside  with  his  old 
friend,  as  if  they  were  renewing  their  acquaintance, 
and  doubtless  he  cut  his  rival  in  small  pieces.  Sur- 
prised by  the  ready  wit,  by  the  acuteness  with  which 
these  men  shaped  their  replies,  Lucien  was  bewil- 
dered by  what  is  called  the  trait,  the  mot,  and  es- 
pecially by  the  freedom  of  their  conversation  and 
their  ease  of  manner.  The  luxury  that  had  dis- 
mayed him  in  the  morning  as  applied  to  things,  he 
found  now  displayed  in  ideas.  He  asked  himself  by 
what  mysterious  means  these  people  always  found 
brilliant  thoughts  ready  to  their  tongues,  repartees 
which  he  could  not  have  invented  except  after  long 


272  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

meditation.  And  then  these  five  men  of  the  world 
were  entirely  at  ease,  not  only  in  their  speech,  but 
in  their  clothes;  they  wore  nothing  new  and  noth- 
ing old.  Nothing  about  them  glistened  with  new- 
ness, but  everything  attracted  the  eye.  Their 
splendor  of  to-day  was  that  of  yesterday  and  would 
be  that  of  to-morrow.  Lucien  realized  that  he  acted 
like  a  man  who  was  dressed  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  De  Marsay  to  Felix  de 
Vandenesse,  "that  young  Rastignac  is  soaring  like 
a  kite!  there  he  is  with  the  Marquise  de  Listomere, 
he  is  making  progress;  he's  looking  at  us!  Doubt- 
less he  knows  monsieur?"  added  the  dandy,  ad- 
dressing Lucien  but  not  looking  at  him. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Madame  de  Bargeton,  "if 
the  name  of  the  great  man  of  whom  we  are  so  proud 
has  not  reached  his  ears ;  his  sister  recently  heard 
Monsieur  de  Rubempre  read  some  very  beautiful 
verses." 

Felix  de  Vandenesse  and  De  Marsay  took  leave 
of  the  marchioness  and  went  to  the  box  of  Madame 
de  Listomere,  Vandenesse's  sister.  The  second  act 
began  and  Madame  d'Espard,  her  cousin  and  Lucien 
were  left  alone.  Some  went  to  explain  Madame 
de  Bargeton  to  the  ladies  who  were  puzzled  by  her 
presence, others  told  of  the  poet's  arrival  and  laughed 
at  his  costume.  Canalis  returned  to  Madame  de 
Chaulieu's  box  and  remained  there.  Lucien  was 
glad  of  the  diversion  afforded  by  the  renewal  of  the 
performance.     Madame  de  Bargeton's  apprehensions 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  273 

relative  to  him  were  augmented  by  the  attention 
her  cousin  had  paid  to  the  Baron  du  Chatelet,  which 
was  very  different  from  her  patronizing  courtesy  to 
Lucien.  During  the  second  act,  Madame  de  Listo- 
mere's  box  continued  full  of  people  and  its  occupants 
seemed  excited  by  a  conversation  of  which  Madame 
de  Bargeton  and  Lucien  were  the  theme.  Young 
Rastignac  was  evidently  the  entertainer  of  the  party ; 
he  set  the  key  for  that  Parisian  laughter,  which, 
seeking  every  day  a  new  feeding-ground,  hastens 
to  exhaust  the  latest  subject  by  converting  it  into 
something  old  and  worn  out  in  a  single  moment. 
Madame  d'Espard,  knowing  that  a  person  who  is 
wounded  by  a  calumny  is  never  left  long  in  ignorance 
of  it,  uneasily  awaited  the  end  of  the  act. 

When  the  sentiments  have  begun  to  scrutinize 
themselves  as  in  the  case  of  Lucien  and  Madame  de 
Bargeton,  strange  things  come  to  pass  in  a  short 
time :  moral  revolutions  are  governed  by  the  law  of 
swift  results.  Louise  had  always  present  in  her 
memory  the  wise  and  politic  words  concerning  Lu- 
cien that  Chatelet  had  said  to  her  in  returning  from 
the  Vaudeville.  Every  sentence  was  a  prophecy, 
and  Lucien  seemed  to  have  undertaken  to  bring 
them  all  to  pass. 

Losing  his  illusions  concerning  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton as  she  lost  hers  concerning  him,  the  poor  fellow, 
whose  destiny  was  not  unlike  Jean-Jacques  Rous- 
seau's, imitated  him  to  the  extent  of  being  fasci- 
nated by  Madame  d'Espard,  and  he  fell  in  love  with 
her  at  once.  Young  people  and  men  who  remember 
18 


274  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

their  youthful  emotions,  will  understand  how  natural 
and  likely  to  be  aroused  that  passion  was.  The 
pretty  little  manners,  the  refined  speech,  the  me- 
lodious voice,  the  willowy,  nobly-born  woman,  so 
highly  placed,  so  envied,  a  queen,  appeared  to  the 
poet  as  Madame  de  Bargeton  appeared  to  him  at 
Angoul^me.  The  mobility  of  his  character  impelled 
him  strongly  to  desire  such  eminent  patronage;  the 
surest  way  was  to  possess  the  woman,  then  he 
would  have  everything!  He  had  succeeded  at  An- 
gouleme,  why  should  he  not  succeed  in  Paris?  In- 
voluntarily, and  despite  the  fascinations  of  the 
Opera  which  were  entirely  novel  to  him,  his  eyes, 
attracted  by  the  magnificent  Celimene,  constantly 
returned  to  her ;  and  the  more  he  looked  at  her,  the 
more  he  longed  to  look  at  her !  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton  surprised  one  of  his  speaking  glances;  she 
watched  him  and  saw  that  he  was  more  engrossed 
by  the  marchioness  than  by  the  performance.  She 
would  have  resigned  herself  gracefully  to  be  neg- 
lected for  the  fifty  daughters  of  Danaus ;  but  when 
a  more  ambitious,  more  ardent,  more  significant 
glance  than  the  others  told  her  what  was  taking 
place  in  Lucien's  heart,  she  became  jealous,  less  for 
the  future  than  for  the  past. 

"He  never  looked  at  me  that  way,"  she  thought. 
"Mon  Dieu,  Chatelet  was  right!" 

She  realized  thereupon  the  error  of  her  love. 
When  a  woman  reaches  the  point  of  repenting  of 
her  weakness,  she  passes  a  sponge  over  her  life,  as 
it  were,  to  wipe  it  all  out.     Although  every  one  of 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  275 

Lucien's  glances  angered  her,  she  remained  out- 
wardly calm.  De  Marsay  returned  between  the 
acts  with  Monsieur  de  Listomere.  The  middle-aged 
man  and  the  young  fop  lost  no  time  in  informing 
the  haughty  marchioness  that  the  wedding  guest  in 
his  Sunday  clothes  whom  she  had  had  the  ill-fortune 
to  admit  to  her  box  was  no  more  Monsieur  de  Ru- 
bempre  than  a  Jew  has  a  baptismal  name.  Lucien 
was  the  son  of  an  apothecary  named  Chardon. 
Monsieur  de  Rastignac,  who  was  thoroughly  posted 
upon  Angouleme  affairs,  had  already  amused  two 
boxes  at  the  expense  of  the  species  of  mummy 
whom  the  marchioness  called  her  cousin,  and  of 
that  lady's  wise  precaution  in  having  an  apothecary 
always  in  attendance,  for  the  evident  purpose  of 
keeping  up  her  artificial  life  with  drugs.  In  a  word, 
De  Marsay  repeated  a  few  of  the  innumerable  jests 
which  amuse  Parisians  for  a  moment  and  are  forgot- 
ten as  soon  as  made,  but  behind  which  was  Cha- 
telet,  the  artisan  of  this  particular  example  of 
Punic  faith. 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame  d'Espard  behind  her 
fan  to  Madame  de  Bargeton,  "I  pray  you,  tell  me  if 
your  protege  is  really  named  De  Rubempre?" 

"He  has  taken  his  mother's  name,"  said  the  em- 
barrassed Anais. 

"But  what  is  his  father's  name?" 

"Chardon." 

"And  what  does  this  Chardon  do?" 

"He  was  a  druggist." 

"1  was  very  sure,  my  dear  friend,  that  all  Paris 


276  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

would  not  make  sport  of  a  woman  whom  I  take  up. 
I  don't  care  about  receiving  visits  here  from  jocose 
young  men,  delighted  to  find  me  with  an  apothe- 
cary's son;  if  you  wish  to  gratify  me,  you  will  go 
out  with  me,  and  at  once." 

Madame  d'Espard  assumed  a  decidedly  imperti- 
nent expression,  Lucien  being  entirely  unable  to 
guess  in  what  way  he  had  occasioned  the  alteration 
in  her  features.  He  thought  that  his  waistcoat 
must  be  in  bad  taste,  which  was  true;  that  the  cut 
of  his  coat  exaggerated  the  prevailing  fashion, 
which  was  also  true.  He  realized,  with  secret  bit- 
terness of  heart,  that  he  must  procure  his  clothes 
from  a  fashionable  tailor,  and  he  determined  that 
he  would  go  the  next  day  to  the  most  famous  of 
them  all,  so  that  he  might  be  able  on  the  following 
Monday  to  hold  his  own  with  the  men  he  was  to 
meet  at  Madame  d'Espard's.  Although  he  was  lost 
in  his  reflections,  he  was  interested  in  the  third  act, 
and  his  eyes  did  not  leave  the  stage.  While  he 
watched  the  pompous  progress  of  that  unique  spec- 
tacle, he  abandoned  himself  to  his  dream  concern- 
ing Madame  d'Espard.  He  was  in  despair  at  her 
sudden  coldness,  which  thwarted  sadly  the  intellec- 
tual ardor  with  which  he  attacked  this  new  passion, 
heedless  of  the  enormous  difficulties  which  he  per- 
ceived in  his  path  and  which  he  vowed  that  he 
would  overcome.  He  roused  himself  from  his  pro- 
found meditation  to  look  again  at  his  new  idol ;  but, 
when  he  turned  his  head,  he  found  that  he  was 
alone;  he  had  heard  a  slight  noise,  it  was  the  door 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  277 

closing  behind  Madame  d'Espard  and  her  cousin. 
Lucien  was  surprised  to  the  last  degree  by  this  sud- 
den desertion,  but  he  did  not  think  about  it  long, 
just  because  he  found  it  inexplicable. 

When  the  two  women  had  entered  their  carriage 
and  were  rolling  through  Rue  de  Richelieu  toward 
Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  the  marchioness  said,  dis- 
guising her  wrath: 

"My  dear  child,  what  are  you  thinking  about? 
pray  wait  till  an  apothecary's  son  is  really  famous 
before  taking  an  interest  in  him.  The  Duchesse 
de  Chaulieu  doesn't  acknowledge  Canalis  yet,  and 
he  is  famous  and  a  gentleman.  This  fellow  is 
neither  your  son  nor  your  lover,  is  he?"  said  the 
haughty  woman,  darting  a  keen,  piercing  glance  at 
her  cousin. 

"How  lucky  for  me  that  I  always  kept  the  little 
fool  at  a  distance  and  never  granted  him  anything 


>> 


o» 


thought  Madame  de  Bargeton. 

"Very  well,"  continued  the  marchioness,  taking 
the  expression  in  her  cousin's  eyes  for  a  reply, 
"drop  him,  I  implore  you.  What  presumption  to 
assume  an  illustrious  name! — why,  that's  the  kind 
of  audacity  that  society  punishes.  I  admit  that  it's 
his  mother's  name;  but  consider,  my  dear,  that  the 
king  alone  has  the  right,  by  royal  decree,  to  confer 
the  name  of  Rubempre  on  the  son  of  a  daughter  of 
that  family;  if  she  has  married  beneath  her,  it 
would  be  a  very  great  favor,  and,  to  obtain  it,  one 
must  have  immense  wealth  or  very  exalted  patron- 
age,  or   must  have  rendered  some  service  to  the 


278  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

government.  That  costume  of  a  dressed-up  shop- 
keeper proves  that  the  boy  is  neither  rich  nor  of 
gentle  birth;  he  has  a  beautiful  face,  but  he  seems 
to  me  a  great  booby;  he  doesn't  know  how  to  act 
or  speak ;  in  short,  he  has  no  breeding.  How  do  you 
happen  to  have  him  under  your  wing?" 

Madame  de  Bargeton,  who  denied  Lucien  as  Lu- 
cien  had  denied  her  in  his  mind,  shuddered  to  think 
that  her  cousin  might  learn  the  truth  touching  her 
journey. 

"I  am  in  despair  at  having  compromised  you, 
my  dear  cousin." 

"I  am  not  to  be  compromised,"  said  Madame 
d'Espard  with  a  smile.  "I  am  thinking  only  of 
you." 

"But you  invited  him  to  dine  with  you  Monday." 

"I  shall  be  ill,"  replied  the  marchioness,  hastily; 
"you  must  write  and  tell  him  of  it  and  I  will  give 
my  people  orders  to  keep  him  out  whichever  name 
he  gives." 


It  occurred  to  Lucien  to  walk  in  the  foyer  be- 
tween the  acts,  as  he  saw  that  everybody  seemed 
to  do  it.  In  the  first  place,  none  of  the  men  who 
had  come  to  Madame  d'Espard's  box  bowed  to  him 
or  seemed  to  pay  any  attention  to  him,  a  fact 
which  seemed  most  extraordinary  to  the  provincial 
poet.  In  the  second  place,  Chatelet,  to  whom  he 
attempted  to  cling,  watched  him  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye  and  constantly  avoided  him.  Having 
become  further  convinced,  after  watching  the  men 
who  were  strolling  about  the  foyer,  that  his  costume 
was  absurd,  Lucien  returned  to  his  place  in  the 
corner  of  the  box  and,  during  the  remainder  of  the 
performance,  his  mind  was  engrossed  in  turn  by  the 
magnificent  spectacle  of  the  ballet  in  the  fifth  act, 
famous  for  its  representation  of  Hell;  by  the  audi- 
torium, where  his  eyes  wandered  from  box  to  box, 
and  by  his  own  reflections,  which  were  most  pro- 
found in  the  presence  of  Parisian  society. 

"This  is  my  kingdom,"  he  said;  "this  is  the 
world  I  must  conquer!" 

He  returned  home  on  foot,  musing  on  all  that 
had  been  said  by  the  people  who  came  to  pay  court 
to  Madame  d'Espard;  their  manner,  their  gestures, 
their  way  of  entering  and  leaving  the  box,  every- 
thing came  back  to  his  memory  with  astonishing 
accuracy.     The  next  day,  toward  noon,  he  made  it 

(279) 


280  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

his  business  to  call  upon  Staub,  the  most  celebrated 
tailor  of  the  time.  By  dint  of  entreaties  and  by 
the  persuasive  power  of  cash,  he  obtained  a  promise 
that  his  clothes  should  be  ready  for  the  famous 
Monday.  Staub  went  so  far  as  to  promise  him  a 
beautiful  redingote,  a  waistcoat  and  a  pair  of 
trousers  for  the  decisive  day.  Lucien  ordered 
shirts  and  handkerchiefs,  in  short,  a  complete  little 
trousseau  at  a  haberdasher's,  and  was  measured  for 
boots  and  shoes  by  a  famous  bootmaker.  He  pur- 
chased a  pretty  cane  at  Verdier's,  gloves  and  shirt 
buttons  at  Madame  Irlande's;  in  a  word,  he  tried  to 
place  himself  on  the  level  of  the  dandies.  When 
he  had  satisfied  all  his  fancies,  he  went  to  Rue 
Neuve-de-Luxembourg  and  found  that  Louise  had 
gone  out. 

"She  dines  with  Madame  la  Marquise  d'Espard 
and  will  not  return  till  late,"  said  Albertine. 

Lucien  dined  for  forty  sous  at  a  restaurant  in  the 
Palais  Royal  and  went  to  bed  early.  On  Sunday 
he  called  upon  Louise  about  eleven  o'clock;  she  had 
not  risen.     He  returned  at  two  o'clock. 

"Madame  does  not  receive  yet,"  said  Albertine, 
"but  she  gave  me  a  little  note  for  you." 

"She  doesn't  receive  yet?"  Lucien  repeated. 
"But  I  am  not—" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Albertine  with  an  imperti- 
nent toss  of  her  head. 

Lucien,  less  surprised  at  Albertine's  reply  than 
to  receive  a  letter  from  Madame  de  Bargeton,  took 
the  note  and  read  these  crushing  words: 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  28 1 

"  Madame  d'Espard  is  not  well,  she  will  not  be  able  to  re- 
ceive you  on  Monday ;  I  am  not  well  myself,  and  yet  I  am 
going  to  dress  and  go  and  sit  with  her.  I  am  in  despair  at 
this  difficulty ;  but  I  am  comforted  when  I  think  of  your  tal- 
ents ;  you  will  make  your  way  without  charlatanism." 

"No  signature!"  said  Lucien  to  himself,  finding 
himself  in  the  Tuileries  without  any  consciousness 
of  having  walked  thither. 

The  gift  of  second  sight  that  talented  men  pos- 
sess, made  him  suspect  the  catastrophe  foreshadowed 
by  this  cold  note.  Lost  in  his  thoughts,  he  walked 
straight  ahead,  staring  at  the  monuments  on  Place 
Louis  XV.  It  was  a  beautiful  day.  Handsome 
carriages  rolled  by  him  in  endless  succession  on 
their  way  to  the  broad  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees. 
He  followed  the  throng  of  promenaders  and  saw  the 
three  or  four  thousand  carriages  that  always  drive 
back  and  forth  on  a  pleasant  Sunday  and  make  of 
it  an  improvised  Longchamp.  Dazzled  by  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  horses,  the  toilets  and  the  liveries, 
he  went  on  and  on  until  he  reached  the  Arc  de  Tri- 
omphe,  recently  begun.  What  were  his  thoughts 
when,  as  he  turned  back,  he  saw  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton  and  Madame  d'Espard  driving  toward  him  in  an 
admirably  appointed  caleche,  behind  which  appeared 
the  waving  plumes  of  the  footman,  whose  gold-em- 
broidered green  coat  first  drew  his  attention  to  them. 
The  long  line  of  carriages  stopped  in  consequence 
of  a  block,  and  Lucien  saw  Louise  in  her  trans- 
formed state ;  she  was  hardly  recognizable :  the  colors 
of  her  costume  were  chosen  to  suit  her  complexion; 


282  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

her  dress  was  lovely;  her  hair  was  beautifully 
arranged  and  became  her  wonderfully,  and  her 
hat,  which  was  in  exquisite  taste,  was  noticeable 
even  beside  Madame  d'Espard's,  who  ruled  the 
fashion.  There  is  an  indescribable  way  of  wearing 
a  hat:  put  it  a  little  too  far  back  and  you  have  a 
brazen  look;  put  it  too  far  forward  and  you  have  a 
cunning  look ;  on  one  side,  your  appearance  becomes 
rakish;  but  comme  il  faut  women  wear  their  hats 
as  they  please  and  always  look  well.  Madame  de 
Bargeton  had  instantly  solved  that  curious  problem. 
A  pretty  girdle  encircled  her  slender  waist.  She 
had  copied  her  cousin's  manners  and  gestures;  sit- 
ting in  the  same  attitude,  she  was  playing  with  a 
dainty  smelling-bottle,  attached  to  one  of  the  fingers 
of  her  right  hand  by  a  gold  chain,  and  in  that  way 
exhibited  her  shapely,  well-gloved  hand  without 
apparently  intending  to  show  it.  In  short,  she  had 
made  herself  like  Madame  d'Espard  without  simply 
aping  her;  she  was  the  worthy  cousin  of  the  mar- 
chioness, who  seemed  to  be  proud  of  her  pupil. 
The  men  and  women  who  were  walking  on  the  foot- 
way stared  at  the  superb  carriage  with  the  arms  of 
the  D'Espards  and  the  Blamont-Chauvrys,  the  two 
escutcheons  being  placed  back  to  back. 

Lucien  was  amazed  at  the  great  number  of  per- 
sons who  bowed  to  the  cousins;  he  was  not  aware 
that  all  Paris,  which  consists  of  about  twenty 
salons,  already  knew  all  about  the  relationship 
between  Madame  de  Bargeton  and  Madame  d'Espard. 
Young   men   on    horseback,   among   whom    Lucien 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  283 

recognized  De  Marsay  and  Rastignac,  rode  beside 
the  caleche,  to  escort  the  cousins  to  the  Bois.  It 
was  easy  for  Lucien  to  see,  by  the  actions  of  the 
two  fops,  that  they  were  complimenting  Madame 
de  Bargeton  on  her  metamorphosis.  Madame 
d'Espard  was  glowing  with  grace  and  health;  her 
indisposition  therefore  was  simply  a  pretext  for  not 
receiving  Lucien,  as  she  did  not  fix  another  day  for 
the  dinner.  The  poet,  in  a  frenzy,  approached  the 
carriage,  walking  very  slowly,  and,  when  he  was 
within  the  two  ladies'  range  of  vision,  bowed  to 
them:  Madame  de  Bargeton  pretended  not  to  see 
him,  the  marchioness  stared  at  him  through  her 
glass  and  did  not  acknowledge  his  salutation.  The 
reprobation  of  the  Parisian  aristocracy  was  not  like 
that  of  the  sovereigns  of  Angouleme:  by  putting 
themselves  out  to  wound  Lucien,  the  provincial 
clodhoppers  acknowledged  his  power  and  admitted 
that  he  was  a  man;  whereas,  to  Madame  d'Espard, 
he  simply  did  not  exist.  It  was  not  a  decree,  it 
was  a  denial  of  justice.  A  deathly  chill  seized  the 
poor  poet  when  De  Marsay  put  his  glass  to  his  eye 
and  stared  at  him ;  the  Parisian  let  his  glass  drop 
in  such  a  peculiar  way  that  it  seemed  to  Lucien 
like  the  knife  of  the  guillotine.  The  caleche  passed 
on.  Impotent  rage,  a  mad  thirst  for  vengeance, 
seized  upon  the  disdained  youth;  if  he  had  had  his 
hands  upon  Madame  de  Bargeton,  he  would  have 
strangled  her;  he  imagined  himself  Fouquier-Tin- 
ville  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure  of  sending  Ma- 
dame d'Espard  to  the  scaffold;  he  would  have  liked 


284  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

to  subject  De  Marsay  to  one  of  the  refined  torments 
invented  by  savages.  He  saw  Canal  is  pass  on 
horseback,  elegantly  attired  as  befitted  the  most 
flattering  of  poets,  and  saluting  the  prettiest  women. 

"My  God!  I  must  have  money  at  any  cost!" 
cried  Lucien;  "Money  is  the  only  power  at  whose 
feet  these  people  kneel." — "No!"  cried  his  con- 
science, "but  glory,  and  glory  means  work!  Work! 
that  is  David's  watchword." — "My  God!  why  am 
I  here?  But  I  will  triumph!  I  will  drive  along 
this  avenue  with  a  carriage  and  footmen!  I  will 
have  Marquises  d'Espard!" 

With  these  frantic  words  on  his  lips,  he  dined  at 
Hurbain's  for  forty  sous.  The  next  morning  at  nine 
o'clock,  he  called  upon  Louise  to  reproach  her 
for  her  barbarity;  not  only  was  Madame  de  Barge- 
ton  not  at  home  to  him,  but  the  concierge  would  not 
even  admit  him;  he  remained  in  the  street,  watch- 
ing until  noon.  At  noon,  Chatelet  came  out,  saw 
the  poet  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  tried  to 
avoid  him.  Lucien,  cut  to  the  quick,  pursued  his 
rival ;  Chatelet,  finding  that  he  was  hard  pressed, 
turned  and  bowed,  with  the  evident  intention  of 
making  sail  again  at  once  after  this  act  of  courtesy. 

"In  pity's  name,  monsieur,"  said  Lucien,  "give 
me  one  second  of  your  time;  I  have  a  few  words  to 
say  to  you.  You  have  manifested  some  friendliness 
to  me,  and  I  invoke  your  friendship  to  confer  upon 
me  the  most  trivial  of  favors.  You  have  just  left 
Madame  de  Bargeton ;  tell  me  why  I  am  in  disgrace 
with  her  and  Madame  d'Espard." 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  285 

"Monsieur  Chardon,"  replied  Chatelet  with 
feigned  kindliness,  "do  you  know  why  those  ladies 
left  you  at  the  Opera?" 

"No,"  said  the  poor  poet. 

"Well,  you  have  been  badly  served  from  the  be- 
ginning by  Monsieur  de  Rastignac.  That  young 
dandy,  when  he  was  questioned  about  you,  answered 
baldly  that  your  name  was  Chardon  and  not  De 
Rubempre;  that  your  mother  was  a  monthly  nurse; 
that  your  father  in  his  lifetime  was  an  apothecary 
at  L'Houmeau,  a  suburb  of  Angouleme;  that  your 
sister  was  a  charming  girl  who  laundered  shirts 
beautifully,  and  that  she  was  going  to  marry  a 
printer  named  Sechard.  That  is  society!  Put 
yourself  forward  and  it  picks  you  to  pieces.  Mon- 
sieur de  Marsay  came  and  laughed  about  you  with 
Madame  d'Espard,  and  the  two  ladies  took  flight  at 
once,  thinking  that  they  would  be  compromised  by 
remaining  with  you.  Don't  try  to  call  upon  either 
of  them.  Madame  de  Bargeton  would  not  be  re- 
ceived by  her  cousin  if  she  continued  to  see  you. 
You  have  genius,  try  to  take  your  revenge.  Society 
looks  down  on  you,  look  down  on  society.  Take 
refuge  in  an  attic,  produce  a  few  masterpieces  there, 
seize  upon  power  of  some  sort  and  you  will  see  so- 
ciety at  your  feet;  then  you  will  repay  the  wounds 
it  has  inflicted  on  you  in  the  same  place  where  they 
were  so  inflicted.  The  more  friendship  Madame 
de  Bargeton  has  shown  you  heretofore,  the  more 
she  will  hold  aloof  from  you  now.  That's  the  way 
with  a  woman's  sentiments.     But  at  this  moment, 


286  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

it's  not  a  question  of  winning  back  Anais's  friend- 
ship, but  of  not  making  an  enemy  of  her,  and  I  will 
tell  you  how  to  avoid  it.  She  has  written  to  you; 
send  back  all  her  letters  and  she  will  appreciate 
such  a  chivalrous  proceeding;  and  later,  if  you  need 
her  assistance,  she  won't  be  hostile  to  you.  As  for 
myself,  I  have  such  an  exalted  opinion  of  your  future, 
that  I  have  taken  your  part  everywhere,  and  from 
this  time  on,  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you  here,  you 
will  find  me  always  ready  to  do  you  a  service." 

Lucien  was  so  dejected,  so  pale,  so  crushed,  that 
he  did  not  return  the  parting  salutation  bestowed 
upon  him  by  the  old  beau,  rejuvenated  by  the  at- 
mosphere of  Paris.  He  returned  to  his  hotel,  where 
he  found  Staub  in  person,  who  had  come  less  for 
the  purpose  of  trying  on  his  clothes,  which  however 
he  did  try  on,  than  to  find  out  from  the  landlady  of 
the  Gaillard-Bois,  the  financial  standing  of  his  un- 
known customer.  Lucien  had  arrived  in  Paris  by 
post,  Madame  de  Bargeton  had  brought  him  home 
from  the  Vaudeville  in  her  carriage  the  preceding 
Thursday.  This  information  was  satisfactory. 
Staub  called  Lucien  "Monsieur  le  Comte, "  and 
called  his  attention  to  the  skill  with  which  he  had 
set  off  his  shapely  figure. 

"A  young  man  dressed  like  that,  can  walk  in  the 
Tuileries  gardens,"  he  said,  "and  marry  a  rich 
Englishwoman  in  a  fortnight." 

The  German  tailor's  pleasantry  and  the  perfect 
fit  of  his  clothes,  the  fineness  of  the  materials,  the 
grace  which  he  discovered  in  his  own  person  as  he 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  287 

looked  himself  over  in  the  mirror,  all  these  trifles 
tended  to  make  Lucien  less  melancholy.  He  said 
to  himself,  vaguely,  that  Paris  was  the  capital  city 
of  chance,  and  for  a  moment  he  believed  in  chance. 
Had  he  not  a  volume  of  poems  and  a  magnificent 
romance,  the  Archer  de  Charles  IX.,  in  manuscript? 
He  had  great  hopes  of  his  destiny.  Staub  promised 
the  redingote  and  all  the  other  garments  for  the  next 
day.  The  next  day  the  bootmaker,  the  haberdasher 
and  the  tailor  appeared,  all  armed  with  their  bills. 
Lucien,  not  knowing  how  else  to  get  rid  of  them, 
and  being  still  under  the  spell  of  provincial  customs, 
paid  them ;  but  after  he  had  paid  them,  he  had  but 
three  hundred  and  sixty  francs  left  of  the  two  thou- 
sand francs  he  had  brought  from  Angouleme;  and 
he  had  been  in  Paris  a  week !  However,  he  dressed 
and  went  to  take  a  turn  on  the  Terrasse  des  Feuil- 
lants.  There  he  had  his  first  taste  of  revenge.  He 
was  so  well  dressed,  so  graceful,  so  handsome,  that 
several  women  looked  at  him,  and  two  or  three  were 
sufficiently  impressed  by  his  beauty  to  turn  around. 
Lucien  studied  the  gait  and  the  bearing  of  the  young 
men,  and  took  his  lesson  in  refined  manners,  think- 
ing all  the  time  of  his  three  hundred  and  sixty 
francs.  In  the  evening,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  speedily  solve  the 
problem  of  living  at  the  Gaillard-Bois,  where  he 
breakfasted  on  the  simplest  dishes,  thinking  that  he 
was  economizing.  He  asked  for  his  account,  saying 
that  he  proposed  to  change  his  quarters,  and  found 
that  he  owed  about  a  hundred  francs. 


288  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

The  next  day  he  went  to  the  Latin  Quarter, 
which  David  had  recommended  to  him  for  cheap- 
ness. After  looking  about  a  long  while,  he  finally 
found,  on  Rue  de  Cluny,  near  the  Sorbonne,  a 
wretched,  furnished  hotel,  where  he  hired  a  room 
for  the  price  he  wanted  to  pay.  He  returned  to  the 
Gaillard-Bois,  paid  his  bill  there,  and  took  up  his 
abode  on  Rue  de  Cluny  during  the  day.  His  change 
of  quarters  cost  him  only  one  cab  fare. 

After  he  had  taken  possession  of  his  poor  room, 
he  put  all  Madame  de  Bargeton's  letters  together, 
tied  them  in  a  little  bundle,  placed  it  on  the  table, 
and,  before  writing  to  her,  thought  over  the  events 
of  that  fatal  week.  He  did  not  reflect  that  he  him- 
self had  been  the  first  to  deny  his  love,  when  he 
did  not  know  what  would  become  of  his  Louise  in 
Paris;  he  did  not  realize  his  own  offence  against 
her,  he  simply  saw  his  present  situation,  for  which 
he  blamed  Madame  de  Bargeton :  instead  of  assist- 
ing him,  she  had  ruined  him.  He  flew  into  a  rage, 
the  rage  of  wounded  pride,  and  wrote  the  following 
letter  in  the  paroxysm  of  his  wrath: 

"What  would  you  say,  madame,  of  a  woman  who  had 
been  attracted  by  some  poor,  timid  child,  full  of  those  noble 
beliefs  which,  later  in  life,  men  call  illusions,  and  who  had 
exerted  the  fascinations  of  coquetry,  all  the  resources  of  her 
wit  and  the  most  seductive  pretence  of  maternal  love  to  lead 
that  child  astray?  Neither  the  most  flattering  promises,  nor 
the  card-houses  which  aroused  his  wondering  admiration, 
cost  her  anything ;  she  leads  him  away,  she  takes  possession 
of  him,  she  scolds  him  for  his  lack  of  confidence  and  flatters 
him  turn  and  turn  about ;  when  the  child  deserts  his  family 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  289 

and  follows  her  blindly,  she  leads  him  to  the  shore  of  a  vast 
sea,  smilingly  launches  him  upon  it  in  a  frail  skiff  and  forces 
him  to  meet  its  storms,  alone  and  without  resource ;  then, 
from  the  cliff  where  she  stands,  she  laughs  at  him  and  wishes 
him  good  luck.  You  are  that  woman;  I  am  that  child.  In 
that  child's  hands  is  a  souvenir  which  might  betray  the 
crimes  of  your  benevolence  and  the  blessing  of  your  deser- 
tion. You  might  have  to  blush  when  you  see  the  child  strug- 
gling with  the  waves,  if  you  should  remember  that  you  had 
held  him  upon  your  bosom.  When  you  read  this  letter,  you 
will  have  that  souvenir  in  your  hands.  You  are  free  to  forget 
everything.  After  the  radiant  hopes  that  your  finger  pointed 
out  to  me  in  the  sky,  I  see  the  reality  of  poverty  in  the  gut- 
ters of  Paris.  While  you,  brilliant  and  adored,  journey 
through  the  grandeurs  of  that  world  to  whose  threshold  you 
led  me  by  the  hand,  I  shall  shiver  with  cold  in  the  miserable 
garret  to  which  you  have  banished  me.  But  perhaps  remorse 
will  lay  hold  of  you  amid  your  festivities  and  your  pleasures; 
perhaps  you  will  think  of  the  child  you  have  cast  into  an 
abyss.  If  so,  madame,  think  of  him  without,  remorse !  From 
the  depths  of  his  misery  that  child  offers  you  the  only  thing 
he  has  to  offer,  his  forgiveness  in  one  last  glance.  Yes, 
madame,  thanks  to  you,  I  have  nothing  left.  Nothing !  But 
was  not  the  world  made  from  nothing  ?  Genius  should  imi- 
tate God :  I  begin  by  imitating  His  clemency,  uncertain 
whether  I  shall  have  His  strength.  You  will  have  occasion 
to  tremble  only  if  I  go  to  the  bad :  then  you  will  be  accessory 
to  my  sins.  Alas !  I  pity  you  because  you  cannot  now  count 
for  aught  in  the  renown  toward  which  my  steps  are  tending 
under  the  guidance  of  hard  work." 

Having  indited  this  emphatic  epistle,  full  of  the 
gloomy  dignity  which  an  artist  of  twenty-one  often 
exaggerates,  Lucien's  thoughts  turned  to  his  family : 
he  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  the  attractive  apartments 
that  David  had  fitted  up  for  him,  sacrificing  a  part 
19 


29O  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

of  his  fortune  for  that  purpose ;  he  had  a  vision  of 
the  tranquil,  modest,  bourgeois  pleasures  that  he 
had  once  enjoyed;  the  figures  of  his  mother  and 
sister  and  David  gathered  about  him,  he  heard  again 
the  tears  they  shed  at  the  time  of  his  departure, 
and  he  wept  himself,  for  he  was  alone  in  Paris, 
without  friends,  without  protectors. 

A  few  days  later,  he  wrote  as  follows  to  his 
sister: 

"MY  DEAR  EVE, 

"  Sisters  enjoy  the  melancholy  privilege  of  espousing  more 
disappointments  than  pleasures  when  they  share  the  exist- 
ence of  brothers  devoted  to  art,  and  I  begin  to  dread  that  I 
may  become  a  heavy  burden  to  you.  Have  I  not  already  im- 
posed upon  you  all,  who  have  sacrificed  yourselves  for  me? 
The  memory  of  my  past,  replete  with  family  joys,  has  helped 
me  to  bear  my  present  solitude.  With  what  great  rapidity, 
like  an  eagle  returning  to  his  nest,  have  I  traversed  the  dis- 
tance that  separates  us,  in  order  to  find  myself  once  more  in 
the  sphere  of  genuine  affection,  after  experiencing  the  first 
miseries  and  the  first  disillusionment  of  Parisian  society ! 
Have  your  lights  flickered?  Have  the  firebrands  on  the 
hearth  turned  over?  Have  your  ears  burned?  Has  my 
mother  said:  '  Lucien  is  thinking  of  us?'  Has  David  an- 
swered :  '  He  is  fighting  against  men  and  things  ?'  Dear 
Eve,  I  am  writing  this  letter  to  you  alone.  To  you  alone 
should  I  dare  to  confide  the  good  and  the  evil  that  may  fall 
to  my  lot,  blushing  equally  for  either,  for  the  good  is  as  rare 
as  the  evil  ought  to  be.  I  can  tell  you  much  in  a  few  words : 
Madame  de  Bargeton  was  ashamed  of  me,  denied  me,  dis- 
missed me,  repudiated  me  the  ninth  day  after  my  arrival. 
When  she  saw  me,  she  turned  her  head ;  and  I,  in  order  to 
follow  her  into  the  social  set  to  which  she  proposed  to  intro- 
duce me,  had  spent  seventeen  hundred  and  sixty  francs  out 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  291 

of  the  two  thousand  I  brought  from  Angouleme,  after  all  the 
difficulty  we  had  in  obtaining  them  ! — '  Spent  for  what?'  you 
will  say.  Ah!  my  poor  sister,  Paris  is  a  terrible  gulf:  you 
can  dine  here  for  eighteen  sous,  and  the  simplest  dinner  at  a 
fashionable  restaurat  costs  fifty  francs  ;  there  are  waistcoats 
and  trousers  for  four  francs  and  for  forty  sous ;  the  fashion- 
able tailors  won't  make  them  for  less  than  a  hundred  francs. 
It  costs  a  sou  to  cross  the  gutters  in  the  street,  when  it  rains. 
The  very  lowest  cab  fare  is  thirty-two  sous.  After  living  for 
a  while  in  the  best  quarter  of  the  city,  I  am  now  at  the  Hotel 
de  Clutiy,  Rue  de  Cluny,  one  of  the  meanest  and  darkest 
little  streets  in  Paris,  cooped  up  between  three  churches  and 
the  old  buildings  of  the  Sorbonne.  1  have  a  furnished  room 
on  the  fourth  floor,  and  although  it  is  very  bare  and  dirty,  I 
pay  fifteen  francs  a  month  for  it.  I  breakfast  on  a  two-sou 
loaf  and  a  sou's  worth  of  milk,  but  I  dine  very  comfortably 
for  twenty-two  sous  at  the  restaurat  of  one  Flicoteaux,  right 
on  the  Place  de  la  Sorbonne.  Until  winter  comes,  my  ex- 
penses won't  exceed  sixty  francs  a  month,  everything  in- 
cluded— at  least  I  hope  so.  So  my  two  hundred  and  forty 
francs  will  be  enough  for  the  first  four  months.  Between  now 
and  then  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  sell  the  Archer  de  Charles  IX. 
and  the  Marguerites.  So  don't  be  at  all  alarmed  on  my  ac- 
count. Although  the  present  is  cold  and  bare  and  shabby,  the 
future  is  blue  and  rich  and  splendid.  Most  great  men  have 
known  the  vicissitudes  which  disturb  but  do  not  crush  me. 
Plautus,  a  great  comic  poet,  was  a  mill  hand.  Machiavelli 
wrote  The  Prince  in  the  evenings,  after  working  with  his 
hands,  on  equal  terms  with  other  mechanics,  during  the  day. 
And  the  great  Cervantes,  too,  who  lost  his  arm  in  the  battle 
of  Lepanto  while  contributing  to  that  world-famous  victory, 
who  was  called  an  old  one-armed  wretch  by  the  scribblers  of  his 
day,  allowed  ten  years  to  elapse  between  the  first  and  second 
parts  of  his  Don  Quixote,  for  lack  of  a  publisher.  We  are 
beyond  that  to-day.  Disappointment  and  want  fall  to  the  lot 
of  none  but  unknown  talents ;  but,  when  they  have  forced 
themselves  into  the  light,  authors  become  rich,  and  I  shall  be 


292  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

rich.  I  am  living  in  my  thoughts  too.  I  pass  half  the  day  at 
the  Bibliotheque  Sainte-Genevieve,  where  I  am  acquiring  such 
information  as  1  lack,  without  which  I  could  make  little  prog- 
ress. To-day,  therefore,  I  am  almost  happy.  Within  a  few 
days  I  have  joyously  adapted  my  life  to  my  circumstances.  I 
devote  myself  from  daybreak  to  work  that  I  love ;  my  ma- 
terial wants  are  certainly  provided  for ;  I  meditate  much,  I 
study,  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  now  be  wounded,  after  renoun- 
cing society,  where  my  vanity  might  suffer  at  any  moment. 
The  illustrious  men  of  any  age  are  bound  to  live  by  them- 
selves. Are  they  not  the  birds  of  the  forest?  they  sing,  they 
charm  nature,  and  no  one  can  see  them.  So  will  I  do,  pro- 
vided that  I  can  realize  the  ambitious  projects  1  have  formed. 
I  do  not  regret  Madame  de  Bargeton.  A  woman  who  acts  as 
she  acted,  does  not  deserve  to  be  remembered.  Nor  do  I  regret 
having  left  Angouleme.  That  woman  did  well  in  casting  me 
loose  in  Paris  and  leaving  me  to  my  own  resources.  This  is 
the  land  of  writers,  of  thinkers,  of  poets.  Here  only  can  the 
seeds  of  glory  be  sown,  and  I  know  of  fair  crops  that  they 
are  producing  to-day.  Here  only  can  writers  find,  in  museums 
and  collections,  the  ever-living  works  of  the  geniuses  of  the 
past,  who  kindle  and  stimulate  the  imagination.  Here  only 
do  enormous  libraries,  always  accessible,  afford  the  mind  in- 
formation and  abundant  pasturage.  Lastly,  there  is  in  Paris, 
in  the  air  and  in  the  most  trifling  details,  a  living  inspiration 
that  leaves  its  mark  upon  literary  productions.  One  can 
learn  more  in  conversation  at  the  cafe'  or  the  theatre  in  half 
an  hour,  than  in  the  provinces  in  ten  years.  Here,  in  truth, 
everything  is  spectacular,  everything  is  comparison  and  in- 
struction. Excessive  cheapness  and  excessive  dearness,  that 
is  Paris  in  a  nutshell,  a  place  where  every  bee  finds  its  cell, 
where  every  mind  assimilates  whatever  is  adapted  to  it. 
Therefore,  although  I  suffer  at  this  moment,  I  do  not  repent. 
On  the  contrary,  a  glorious  future  is  unfolding  before  me  and 
consoles  my  heart  in  this  moment  of  sorrow.  Adieu,  my 
dear  sister.  Do  not  expect  letters  from  me  regularly :  one  of 
the  peculiarities  of  Paris  is  that  one  never  realizes  how  time 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  293 

flies.    Life    moves  at  an  alarming  speed.     I  embrace  my 
mother,  David  and  yourself  more  lovingly  than  ever." 


Flicoteaux  is  a  name  inscribed  in  many  memories. 
There  were  few  students  who  boarded  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  during  the  first  twelve  years  of  the  Resto- 
ration who  did  not  resort  to  that  temple  of  hunger 
and  want.  The  dinner,  consisting  of  three  courses, 
cost  eighteen  sous  with  a  quarter  of  a  bottle  of  wine  or 
a  bottle  of  beer,  and  twenty-two  sous  with  a  bottle  of 
wine.  The  thing  that  undoubtedly  prevented  this 
friend  of  youth  from  making  a  colossal  fortune  was 
an  item  of  the  bill  of  fare  printed  in  great  letters  in 
the  advertisements  of  his  rivals,  and  thus  con- 
ceived: Bread  at  your  discretion,  that  is  to 
say,  to  indiscretion.  Many  great  reputations  have 
had  Flicoteaux  for  foster-father.  Certainly  the 
heart  of  more  than  one  illustrious  man  must  be  joy- 
fully conscious  of  innumerable  pleasant  recollections 
as  he  sees  the  cafe  front  with  little  square  windows 
looking  on  Place  de  la  Sorbonne  and  Rue  Neuve-de- 
Richelieu,  which  Flicoteaux  II.  or  III.  had  left  un- 
touched, before  the  days  of  July,  allowing  it  to 
retain  the  dingy  hue,  the  ancient  and  respectable 
air  which  denoted  profound  contempt  for  the  char- 
latanism of  the  outer  world,  a  sort  of  advertisement 
for  the  eyes  at  the  expense  of  the  stomach  adopted 
by  almost  all  the  restaurateurs  of  to-day.  Instead 
of  the  quantities  of  stuffed  birds,  not  intended  to  be 
cooked,  instead  of  the  impossible  fishes  which  jus- 
tify the  clown's  jest:     "I  have  seen  a  fine  carp  and 


294  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

1  mean  to  buy  it  a  week  hence;"  instead  of  the 
early  fruit,  which  should  be  called  late  fruit,  dis- 
played in  fallacious  tiers  for  the  pleasure  of  cor- 
porals and  their  sweethearts,  honest  Flicoteaux 
exhibited  divers  salad-bowls  embellished  with  many 
a  patch,  wherein  stewed  prunes  rejoiced  the  gaze  of 
the  customer,  who  was  assured  that  the  word  des- 
sert, which  was  too  lavishly  used  in  other  advertise- 
ments, was  not  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  The 
six-pound  loaves,  cut  in  four  pieces,  removed  all 
doubt  as  to  the  unlimited  supply  of  bread.  Such 
were  the  luxurious  surroundings  of  an  establishment 
which,  had  it  existed  in  his  time,  Moliere  would 
have  made  famous,  so  amusing  is  the  epigram  of 
the  name.  Flicoteaux  still  lives;  he  will  live  as 
long  as  students  desire  to  live.  They  go  there  to 
eat,  nothing  less,  nothing  more;  but  they  eat  there 
as  they  work,  with  gloomy  or  joyous  activity,  ac- 
cording to  their  dispositions  or  the  circumstances  of 
their  lives. 

This  celebrated  establishment  consisted  at  this 
time  of  two  long,  narrow,  low  rooms,  at  right  angles 
to  each  other,  one  on  Place  de  la  Sorbonne,  the 
other  on  Rue  Neuve-de-Richelieu;  both  were  sup- 
plied with  tables  from  some  abbey  refectory,  for 
their  length  was  decidedly  monastic,  and  they  were 
always  laid  for  one  meal  or  another,  with  the  nap- 
kins of  the  regular  customers  in  numbered  tin  nap- 
kin-rings. Flicoteaux  I.  changed  the  table  linen  on 
Sundays  only;  but  Flicoteaux  II.  changed  it  twice 
a  week,  so  it  was  said,  as  soon  as  his  supremacy 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  295 

was  threatened  by  his  rivals.  The  restaurant  is  a 
workshop  with  its  tools  rather  than  a  banquet  hall 
with  its  luxury  and  its  aids  to  enjoyment;  everyone 
leaves  it  as  promptly  as  possible.  Within,  every- 
thing is  swift  movement.  The  waiters  come  and 
go  without  sauntering,  they  are  all  busy,  all  neces- 
sary. The  dishes  show  but  little  variety.  The 
potato  is  everlasting;  if  there  were  no  potatoes  in 
Ireland,  if  the  crop  should  fail  everywhere  else,  you 
would  still  find  them  at  Flicoteaux's.  They  have 
been  served  there  for  thirty  years,  of  the  blond  hue 
affected  by  Titian,  surrounded  by  chopped  herbs, 
and  they  enjoy  a  privilege  much  desired  by  women : 
as  you  found  them  in  1814,  so  you  will  find  them  in 
1840.  Mutton  cutlets  and  filet  of  beef  are  to  the 
menu  of  that  establishment  what  woodcock  and  filet 
of  sturgeon  are  to  Very's,  special  dishes  which  must 
be  ordered  in  the  morning.  The  female  of  the  ox 
is  the  principal  resource,  and  her  son  is  much  in 
evidence  in  the  most  ingenious  shapes.  When  the 
whiting  and  mackerel  make  their  appearance  off 
shore  they  bob  up  in  Flicoteaux's  larder.  There 
everything  corresponds  with  the  vicissitudes  of 
agriculture  and  the  caprice  of  the  French  seasons. 
You  can  learn  there  things  that  are  not  even  sus- 
pected by  the  wealthy,  the  indolent  and  those  who 
are  indifferent  to  nature's  varying  phases.  The 
student  who  is  penned  up  in  the  Latin  Quarter  can 
obtain  there  the  most  exact  knowledge  of  the  crops: 
he  knows  when  it  is  a  good  year  for  beans  and  peas, 
when  the  market  is  overflowing  with  cabbage,  what 


296  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

material  for  salad  is  most  abundant  and  whether  the 
beet-root  has  failed.  An  old  calumny,  revived 
about  the  time  Lucien  first  went  there,  consisted  in 
attributing  the  appearance  of  beefsteaks  to  some 
epidemic  among  horses. 

Few  Parisian  restaurants  present  such  a  fine 
spectacle.  There  you  find  only  youth  and  confi- 
dence, poverty  cheerfully  endured,  although  there 
are  not  lacking  ardent  and  sober  faces  and  clouded 
and  anxious  ones.  The  costumes  are  generally 
careless.  For  that  reason  well-dressed  customers 
attract  attention.  Everyone  knows  that  the  un- 
usual garb  means:  an  appointment  with  a  mistress, 
a  theatre  party  or  a  call  in  a  higher  sphere.  It  is 
said  that  friendships  have  been  cemented  there  be- 
tween students  who  have  subsequently  become 
famous,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  course  of  this  narra- 
tive. Nevertheless,  except  for  the  young  men  from 
the  same  province  grouped  at  one  end  of  a  table, 
the  diners,  generally  speaking,  have  a  gravity  of 
demeanor  which  is  not  easily  melted,  perhaps  be- 
cause of  the  catholicity  of  the  wine,  which  is  not 
calculated  to  cause  a  flow  of  spirits.  Those  who 
have  patronized  Flicoteaux's  will  remember  several 
dark-browed  mysterious  personages,  enveloped  in 
the  mists  of  utter  destitution,  who  dined  there  per- 
haps for  two  years  and  disappeared,  without  a  ray 
of  light  concerning  these  Parisian  jack-o'-lanterns 
having  ever  reached  the  eyes  of  the  most  inquisitive 
habitues.  The  friendships  begun  at  Flicoteaux's 
are  cemented  in  the    neighboring  cafes  with   the 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  297 

flames  of  a  glowing  punch,  or  the  heat  of  a  small 
cup  of  coffee,  laced  with  some  fiery  liqueur. 

During  the  early  days  of  his  abode  at  the  Hotel 
de  Cluny,  Lucien,  like  all  neophytes,  was  regular 
and  modest  in  his  habits.  After  the  sad  experience 
of  fashionable  life  that  had  absorbed  all  his  capital, 
he  plunged  into  work  with  the  initial  ardor  that  is 
so  quickly  cooled  by  the  obstacles  and  distractions 
which  Paris  presents  to  all  lives,  the  most  luxurious 
as  well  as  the  poorest,  and  which,  in  order  to  be 
overcome,  demand  the  savage  energy  of  real  talent 
or  the  dogged  persistence  of  ambition.  Lucien 
would  drop  in  at  Flicoteaux's  about  half-past  four, 
having  discovered  the  advantage  of  being  among  the 
first  to  arrive;  the  dishes  were  then  more  varied, 
and  one's  favorite  was  not  likely  to  be  exhausted. 
Like  all  poetic  minds,  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  a 
particular  location,  and  his  choice  exhibited  much 
discernment.  On  his  first  visit  to  the  place,  he  had 
noticed,  near  the  desk,  a  certain  table  at  which  the 
faces  of  the  guests,  as  well  as  such  snatches  of  their 
conversation  as  he  could  catch  on  the  wing,  betrayed 
comrades  in  the  literary  profession.  Moreover,  he 
instinctively  guessed  that  by  taking  a  seat  near  the 
desk,  he  would  have  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  the 
proprietors.  Sooner  or  later  he  would  make  their 
acquaintance,  and  then,  if  he  should  become  em- 
barrassed pecuniarily,  doubtless  he  would  be  able 
to  obtain  such  credit  as  he  might  need.  He  had 
taken  his  seat  therefore  at  a  small  square  table 
beside  the  desk,   where  he  saw  only  two   covers 


298  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

supplied  with  white  napkins  without  rings,  and 
intended  probably  for  transient  guests.  Lucien's 
vis-a-vis  was  a  thin,  pale,  young  man,  probably  as 
poor  as  himself,  whose  handsome  face,  already 
pinched  by  want,  announced  that  vanished  hopes 
had  fatigued  his  brow  and  left  in  his  heart  furrows 
wherein  the  seeds  sown  did  not  take  root.  Lucien 
felt  impelled  toward  the  stranger  by  these  vestiges 
of  a  poetic  nature  and  by  an  irresistible  outflow  of 
sympathy. 

This  young  man,  the  first  with  whom  the  An- 
goule'me  poet  succeeded  in  opening  a  conversation 
after  a  week  of  polite  attentions,  words  and  brief 
sentences  exchanged,  was  named  Etienne  Lousteau. 
Some  two  years  before,  Etienne,  like  Lucien,  had 
left  his  native  province,  Berri.  His  animated  ges- 
tures, his  gleaming  eyes,  his  sometimes  abrupt 
speech,  indicated  a  bitter  acquaintance  with  literary 
life.  Etienne  had  come  from  Sancerre,  his  tragedy 
in  his  pocket,  attracted  by  the  same  things  that 
pointed  the  way  to  Lucien :  glory,  power,  wealth. 
At  first  he  dined  at  the  restaurant  several  days  in 
succession,  but  before  long  he  appeared  only  at  in- 
tervals. When  Lucien  met  his  poet  again  after 
five  or  six  days'  absence,  he  hoped  to  see  him  the 
next  day  as  well,  but  the  next  day  his  place  was 
taken  by  a  stranger.  When  two  young  men  have 
met  and  conversed  yesterday,  the  flame  of  that 
day's  conversation  is  reflected  upon  to-day's;  but 
these  long  intervals  compelled  Lucien  to  break  the 
ice  anew  every  time,  and  retarded  the  progress  of 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  299 

an  intimacy  that  advanced  but  slowly  during  the 
first  weeks.  By  dint  of  questioning  the  female  at  the 
desk,  Lucien  learned  that  his  future  friend  was  the 
manager  of  a  small  newspaper,  for  which  he  wrote 
reviews  of  new  books  and  acted  as  critic  at  the 
Ambigu-Comique,  the  Gaiete  and  the  Panorama- 
Dramatique.  The  young  man  suddenly  became  a 
personage  in  Lucien's  eyes,  who  determined  to  be  a 
little  more  personal  in  his  next  attempt  at  conver- 
sation, and  to  make  some  sacrifices  in  order  to  ob- 
tain a  friendship  so  necessary  to  a  beginner. 

The  journalist  was  absent  a  fortnight.  Lucien 
did  not  as  yet  know  that  Etienne  dined  at  Flico- 
teaux's  only  when  he  had  no  money,  a  circum- 
stance that  accounted  for  the  gloomy,  discontented 
expression,  the  coldness  of  manner,  which  Lucien 
met  with  flattering  smiles  and  soft  words.  Never- 
theless, this  connection  demanded  mature  reflection, 
for  this  obscure  journalist  seemed  to  lead  an  ex- 
travagant life,  a  succession  of  petits  verres,  cups  of 
coffee,  bowls  of  punch,  plays  and  supper-parties. 
Now,  during  the  early  days  of  his  sojourn  in  the 
quarter,  Lucien's  conduct  was  that  of  a  poor  child 
bewildered  by  his  first  experience  of  Parisian  life. 
And  so,  after  he  had  studied  the  price  of  the  differ- 
ent articles  of  food  and  weighed  his  purse,  Lucien 
did  not  dare  adopt  Etienne's  ways,  dreading  to  be- 
gin again  the  blunders  that  he  still  repented.  Still 
under  the  yoke  of  provincial  customs,  his  two 
guardian  angels,  Eve  and  David,  appeared  before 
him  at  the  least  evil  thought,  and  reminded  him  of 


300  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

the  hopes  reposed  in  him,  his  responsibility  for  his 
old  mother's  happiness,  and  all  the  promises  of  his 
genius.  He  passed  his  mornings  at  the  Bibliotheque 
Sainte-Genevieve  studying  history.  His  first  re- 
searches had  shown  him  horrible  errors  in  his 
Archer  de  Charles  IX.  When  the  library  closed, 
he  returned  to  his  damp,  cold  room  to  correct  his 
work,  rearrange  it,  suppress  whole  chapters.  After 
dining  atFlicoteaux's,  he  went  down  to  the  Passage 
du  Commerce,  to  Blosse's  bookstall,  and  read  the 
recent  publications,  the  newspapers,  the  reviews 
and  the  new  poems,  in  order  to  keep  abreast  of  the 
intellectual  movement  of  the  time,  and  returned  to 
his  wretched  hotel  about  midnight,  having  used  no 
fuel  or  light.  All  this  reading  wrought  such  a 
change  in  his  ideas,  that  he  reviewed  his  collection 
of  sonnets  upon  flowers,  his  cherished  Marguerites, 
and  worked  them  over  so  thoroughly  that  not  a  hun- 
dred lines  were  retained. 

Thus  Lucien  at  first  led  the  pure  and  innocent 
life  of  poor  boys  from  the  provinces,  who  find  the 
Flicoteaux  fare  luxurious  when  compared  with  the 
paternal  table,  whose  recreation  consists  in  slow 
promenades  through  the  paths  at  the  Luxembourg, 
casting  sheep's  eyes  at  the  pretty  women  while 
the  blood  beats  madly  in  their  veins,  who  never 
leave  the  quarter  and  who  devote  themselves  re- 
ligiously to  hard  work,  thinking  of  their  future. 
But  Lucien,  a  born  poet,  often  the  victim  of  most 
intense  longings,  was  powerless  against  the  seduc- 
tions of  the  theatre  posters.     The  Theatre-Francais, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  301 

the  Vaudeville,  the  Varietes,  the  Opera-Comique, 
where  he  sat  in  the  pit,  relieved  him  of  about 
sixty  francs.  What  student  could  resist  the  joy  of 
seeing  Talma  in  the  roles  he  has  made  famous? 
The  theatre,  the  first  love  of  all  poetic  minds,  fas- 
cinated Lucien.  The  actors  and  actresses  seemed 
to  him  imposing  personages;  he  did  not  believe  in 
the  possibility  of  passing  the  footlights  and  knowing 
them  familiarly.  The  authors  of  his  pleasure  were 
to  him  marvelous  beings  whom  the  newspapers 
treated  like  important  affairs  of  state.  To  be  a  dra- 
matic author,  to  see  one's  works  performed — what 
a  fondly  cherished  dream !  Some  audacious  mortals, 
like  Casimir  Delavigne,  had  seen  that  dream  come 
true !  These  pregnant  thoughts,  these  moments  of 
faith  in  himself,  followed  by  despair,  acted  power- 
fully upon  Lucien,  and  kept  him  in  the  blessed  path 
of  work  and  economy,  despite  the  sullen  grumbling 
of  more  than  one  frenzied  desire.  With  excessive 
prudence  he  made  it  his  rule  never  to  enter  the 
Palais-Royal,  that  abode  of  perdition,  where,  in  a 
single  day,  he  had  spent  fifty  francs  at  Very's  and 
nearly  five  hundred  francs  in  clothes.  And  so, 
when  he  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  see  Talma, 
the  two  Baptistes,  Fleury  or  Michot,  he  went  no 
farther  than  the  dark  gallery  where  people  stood  in 
line  from  half-past  five  and  where  belated  ones  were 
obliged  to  pay  ten  sous  a  place  in  the  line  near  the 
office.  Often  the  words :  There  are  no  more  tickets  ! 
rang  in  the  ears  of  more  than  one  disappointed 
student,  who  had  stood  there  more  than  two  hours. 


302  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

After  the  play,  Lucien  would  return  home,  with 
downcast  eyes,  paying  no  heed  to  the  scenes  in  the 
streets,  which  were  well  supplied  with  living 
seductions.  Perhaps  some  of  those  adventures  may 
have  happened  to  him,  which,  though  exceedingly 
simple,  occupy  an  enormous  place  in  young  and 
timorous  imaginations.  Alarmed  by  the  rapid 
diminution  of  his  capital,  one  day  when  he  was 
counting  over  his  remaining  stock,  Lucien  had  a 
cold  shiver  at  the  thought  that  he  must  make  in- 
quiries for  a  publisher  and  seek  work  for  which  he 
would  be  paid.  The  young  journalist,  who  was 
the  only  friend  he  had  made,  no  longer  came  to 
Flicoteaux's.  Lucien  awaited  some  lucky  chance 
which  did  not  turn  up.  At  Paris  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  chance  except  for  people  who  have  a  very 
wide  circle  of  acquaintance;  the  chances  of  success 
in  every  direction  increase  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  one's  relations,  and  chance  too  is  on  the 
side  of  the  larger  battalions.  Like  a  man  in  whom 
the  proverbial  forehandedness  of  provincials  was 
not  yet  extinct,  Lucien  did  not  choose  to  wait  until 
he  had  only  a  crown  or  two  left;  he  determined 
to  confront  the  publishers. 


One  sharp  morning  in  the  month  of  September, 
he  walked  down  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  his  two  manu- 
scripts under  his  arm.  He  went  as  far  as  Quai 
des  Augustins  and  along  the  sidewalk  there,  looking 
alternately  at  the  waters  of  the  Seine  and  the  book- 
shops, as  if  some  kind  spirit  were  advising  him  to 
plunge  into  the  water  rather  than  to  plunge  into 
literature.  After  much  painful  hesitation,  after  a 
profound  scrutiny  of  the  faces,  more  or  less  amiable, 
attractive,  repellent,  cheerful  or  dejected,  which  he 
saw  through  the  windows  or  standing  in  the  door- 
ways, he  pitched  upon  a  house  in  front  of  which 
several  clerks  were  busily  engaged  packing  books. 
Business  was  very  brisk;  the  walls  were  covered 
with  placards: 

FOR   SALE: 
Le  Solitaire,  by  Monsieur  le   Vicomte  d'Arlin- 
court,   3d  edition. 

LEONIDE,  by  Victor  Ducange,  5  volumes,  i2mo, 
printed  on  superfine  paper.     Price,  12  francs. 

Inductions  Morales,  by  Keratry. 

"Those  men  are  fortunate!"  cried  Lucien. 

The  poster,  a  new  and  original  creation  of  the 
famous  Ladvocat,  had  recently  made  its  first  appear- 
ance on  the  walls.     Paris  was  soon  bespangled  by 

(303) 


304  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

advertisements  of  this  sort,  one  of  the  sources  of 
public  revenue.  At  last,  his  heart  swollen  with 
excitement  and  anxiety,  Lucien,  lately  such  a  great 
man  in  Angouleme  and  now  so  small  in  Paris, 
glided  along  by  the  intervening  houses  and  mustered 
up  courage  to  enter  the  shop,  which  was  crowded 
with  clerks,  customers  and  booksellers.  "And  per- 
haps with  authors!"  thought  Lucien. 

"I  would  like  to  speak  with  Monsieur  Vidal  or 
Monsieur  Porchon,"  he  said  to  a  clerk. 

He  had  read  in  great  letters  on  the  sign: 

Vidal  and  Porchon, 

Booksellers  on  Commission  for  France  and  Foreign 

Countries. 

"Both  those  gentlemen  are  engaged,"  said  the 
clerk. 

"I  will  wait." 

They  left  the  poet  in  the  shop  examining  the 
books;  he  passed  nearly  two  hours  looking  at  titles, 
opening  books,  reading  a  page  here  and  there.  At 
last  he  rested  his  shoulder  against  a  glass  door  with 
little  green  curtains,  behind  which  he  suspected 
that  either  Vidal  or  Porchon  was,  and  overheard  the 
following  conversation: 

"Will  you  take  five  hundred  copies  ?  In  that  case, 
I  will  let  you  have  them  at  five  francs  and  give  you 
the  double  thirteenth." 

"What  price  does  that  make  them?" 

"Sixteen  sous  less." 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  305 

"Four  francs  four  sous,"  said  either  Vidal  or  Por- 
chon  to  the  man  who  was  offering  his  books. 

"Yes,"  the  vender  replied. 

"On  credit?"  queried  the  purchaser. 

"You  old  rascal!  and  you  would  settle  with  me 
eighteen  months  hence  with  notes  to  run  a  year, 
eh?" 

"No,  to  be  adjusted  at  once,"  replied  Vidal  or 
Porchon. 

"On  what  time?  Nine  months?"  inquired  the 
author  or  publisher  who  seemed  to  have  a  book  to 
sell. 

"No,  my  dear  man,  a  year,"  replied  that  one  of 
the  commission  merchants  with  whom  he  was 
talking. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"You  have  me  by  the  throat!"  cried  the  un- 
known. 

"But  do  you  suppose  we  shall  have  disposed  of 
five  hundred  copies  of  Leonide  in  a  year?"  retorted 
the  commission  merchant  to  Victor  Ducange's  pub- 
lisher. "If  books  sold  as  publishers  would  like  to 
have  them,  we  should  all  be  millionaires,  my  dear 
master;  but  they  sell  to  suit  the  public.  Walter 
Scott's  novels  are  sold  at  eighteen  sous  the  volume, 
three  francs  twelve  the  whole  work,  and  do  you 
suppose  1  can  sell  your  trash  at  a  higher  price?  If 
you  want  me  to  push  your  story  for  you,  make  it 
an  object  for  me. — Vidal !" 

A  fat  man  left  the  desk  and  approached,  with  a 
pen  behind  his  ear. 
20 


306  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

"In  your  last  trip,  how  many  copies  of  Ducange's 
books  did  you  sell?"  Porchon  asked  him. 

"I  sold  two  hundred  of  the  Petit  Vieillard  de 
Calais  ;  but  in  order  to  do  it  I  had  to  cry  down  two 
other  works  on  which  we  didn't  get  such  good  com- 
missions, and  which  afterwards  became  very  pretty 
rossignols." 

Later  Lucien  learned  that  this  sobriquet  of  ros- 
signol — literally,  nightingale, — was  given  by  book- 
sellers to  works  which  remained  stowed  away  upon 
shelves  in  the  dark  depths  of  their  shops. 

"You  know,  too,"  added  Vidal,  "that  Picard  has 
novels  in  press.  They  promise  us  twenty  per  cent 
commission  on  the  regular  bookseller's  price,  in 
order  to  give  them  a  successful  start." 

"Well,  let  it  be  for  a  year  then,"  replied  the 
publisher  piteously,  crushed  by  this  last  confidential 
remark  of  Vidal  to  Porchon. 

"Is  it  agreed?"  Porchon  asked  him  abruptly. 

"Yes." 

The  publisher  took  his  leave,  and  Lucien  heard 
Porchon  say  to  Vidal : 

"We  have  three  hundred  copies  ordered;  we'll 
postpone  his  settlement,  we'll  sell  the  ttonide  at  a 
hundred  sous  a  copy,  we'll  make  the  purchasers 
settle  in  six  months,  and — " 

"And  there  are  fifteen  hundred  francs  in  our 
pockets,"  rejoined  Vidal. 

"Oh!  I  saw  that  he  was  very  hard  up." 

"He's  in  trouble  up  to  his  ears  !  he  pays  Ducange 
four  thousand  francs  for  two  thousand  copies." 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  307 

Lucien  stopped  Vidal  as  he  came  out  through  the 
little  door  of  the  cage. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said  to  the  partners,  "I  have  the 
honor  to  salute  you." 

The  commission  merchants  hardly  returned  his 
salutation. 

"I  am  the  author  of  a  historical  romance  after 
the  style  of  Walter  Scott,  entitled  L' Archer  de 
Charles  IX.  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would 
purchase  it." 

Porchon  glanced  coldly  at  Lucien  and  laid  his  pen 
on  his  desk.  Vidal  looked  at  the  poet  with  a  brutal 
expression  and  replied: 

"Monsieur,  we  are  not  publishers,  we  are  com- 
mission merchants.  When  we  print  a  book  on  our 
own  account,  it  is  an  undertaking  that  we  enter 
into  only  with  well-known  names.  Furthermore,  we 
purchase  none  but  serious  books,  histories,  sum- 
maries." 

"But  my  book  is  very  serious;  it  is  an  attempt 
to  depict  in  its  true  light  the  struggle  between  the 
Catholics  who  adhered  to  the  absolute  monarchy, 
and  the  Protestants  who  wished  to  establish  a  re- 
public." 

"Monsieur  Vidal!"  cried  a  clerk. 

Vidal  disappeared. 

"I  don't  undertake  to  say,  monsieur,  that  your 
book  may  not  be  a  masterpiece,"  Porchon  con- 
tinued, with  a  decidedly  discourteous  gesture,  "but 
we  deal  only  in  books  that  are  already  printed.  Go 
and    see    the   men   who    buy   manuscripts:    Pere 


308  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

Doguereau,  Rue  du  Coq,  near  the  Louvre;  he's  one 
of  those  who  go  in  for  novels.  If  you  had  spoken 
sooner,  you  might  have  seen  Pollet,  the  rival  of 
Doguereau  and  of  the  booksellers  of  the  wooden 
galleries." 

"Monsieur,  I  have  a  collection  of  poems — " 

"Monsieur  Porchon!"  some  one  called. 

"Poetry!"  cried  Porchon  angrily.  "What  do 
you  take  me  for,  eh?"  he  added,  laughing  in  his 
face,  as  he  disappeared  in  his  back  shop. 

Lucien  crossed  Pont  Neuf,  buried  in  thought. 
The  little  that  he  had  understood  of  this  commercial 
jargon  led  him  to  believe  that,  in  the  eyes  of  those 
dealers,  books  were  what  cotton  nightcaps  are  to 
capmakers, — simply  an  article  of  merchandise  to  be 
bought  cheap  and  sold  dear. 

"I  have  made  a  mistake,"  he  said,  impressed 
nevertheless  by  the  brutal  and  material  aspect  his 
late  experience  imparted  to  literature. 

He  spied  on  Rue  du  Coq  a  modest  shop  which  he 
had  already  passed,  bearing  these  words  in  yellow 
letters  on  a  green  background :  DOGUEREAU,  BOOK- 
SELLER. He  remembered  that  he  had  seen  those 
words  at  the  foot  of  the  title  page  in  several  of  the 
novels  he  had  glanced  over  at  Blosse's  bookstall. 
He  entered,  not  without  that  internal  trepidation 
which  the  certainty  of  a  conflict  causes  in  all  men  of 
imagination.  He  found  in  the  shop  an  old  man  of  cu- 
rious appearance,  one  of  the  original  figures  of  the 
book  trade  under  the  Empire.  Doguereau  wore  a 
black  coat  with  enormous  square  skirts,  whereas  it 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  309 

was  the  prevailing  fashion  to  cut  frockcoats  in  the 
shape  of  a  codfish's  tail.  He  had  a  waistcoat  of 
cheap  material  with  squares  of  various  colors,  from 
which  hung,  in  the  region  of  the  fob,  a  steel  chain  and 
a  copper  key,  which  dangled  against  his  very  full 
black  breeches.  The  watch  must  have  been  of  the 
size  of  an  onion.  His  costume  was  completed  by  iron- 
gray  milled  stockings,  and  shoes  embellished  with 
silver  buckles.  The  old  man's  bare  head  was 
decorated  with  grizzly  locks,  poetically  sparse  in 
quantity. 

Pere  Doguereau,  as  Porchon  called  him,  suggested 
the  professor  of  belles-letters  by  his  coat,  his 
breeches  and  his  shoes,  and  the  tradesman  by  his 
waistcoat,  his  watch  and  his  stockings.  His  coun- 
tenance did  not  contradict  that  strange  combination: 
he  had  the  magisterial,  dogmatic  air,  the  wrinkled 
face  of  the  instructor  in  rhetoric,  and  the  bright 
eyes,  the  suspicious  mouth,  the  vague  restlessness 
of  the  publisher. 

"Monsieur  Doguereau?"  queried  Lucien. 

"I  am  the  man,  monsieur." 

"I  am  the  author  of  a  novel,"  said  Lucien. 

"You  are  very  young,"  replied  the  bookseller. 

"But  my  age  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter, 
monsieur." 

"True,"  said  the  old  man  taking  the  manuscript. 
"Ah!  deuce  take  me!  L' Archer  de  Charles  IX.!  a 
good  title.  Come,  young  man,  tell  me  your  sub- 
ject in  two  words." 

"It    is    a    historical   work,    monsieur,   after    the 


310  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

style  of  Walter  Scott,  in  which  the  struggle  between 
the  Protestants  and  Catholics  is  presented  as  a  con- 
flict between  two  systems  of  government,  in  which 
the  throne  was  seriously  threatened.  I  have  taken 
sides  with  the  Catholics." 

"An  original  idea,  young  man,  on  my  word! 
Well,  I  will  read  your  book,  I  promise  you.  I  should 
have  preferred  a  novel  after  the  style  of  Madame 
Radcliffe;  but  if  you  are  a  worker,  if  you  have  a 
little  style,  originality,  ideas,  and  the  art  of  giving 
them  the  proper  stage-setting,  I  ask  nothing  better 
than  to  be  of  service  to  you.  What  do  we  need  ? — 
good  manuscripts." 

"When  may  I  come  again?" 

"I  am  going  to  the  country  this  evening  and  shall 
return  the  day  after  to-morrow;  I  shall  have  read 
your  work  meanwhile,  and  if  it  suits  me,  we  can 
come  to  terms  that  same  day." 

Lucien,  finding  him  such  an  agreeable  old  fellow, 
conceived  the  fatal  idea  of  producing  the  manuscript 
of  Les  Marguerites. 

"I  have  also  written  a  number  of  poems,  mon- 
sieur— " 

"Ah!  you're  a  poet!  I  want  nothing  to  do  with 
your  novel  then,"  said  the  old  man,  handing  him 
the  manuscript.  "Rhymesters  make  a  mess  of  it 
when  they  try  to  write  prose.  In  prose,  there's  no 
poetic  license,  you  must  really  say  something." 

"But,  monsieur,  Walter  Scott  wrote  verses  too — " 

"So  he  did,"  said  Doguereau,  and  he  softened 
his  tone,   guessed  at  the  young  man's  penurious 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  311 

condition  and  kept  the  manuscript.  "Where  do  you 
live?     I  will  come  and  see  you." 

Lucien  gave  his  address  without  the  least  sus- 
picion of  any  hidden  motive  on  the  old  man's  part; 
he  did  not  recognize  in  him  the  publisher  of  the  old 
school,  a  survivor  of  the  days  when  publishers 
strove  to  keep  Voltaire  and  Montesquieu  under  lock 
and  key  in  an  attic,  dying  of  hunger. 

"I  have  just  this  moment  come  through  the  Latin 
Quarter,"  said  the  old  man  after  he  had  read  the 
address. 

"What  a  fine  fellow!"  thought  Lucien  as  he  took 
leave  of  the  bookseller.  "I  have  fallen  in  with  a 
friend  of  young  men,  a  connoisseur  who  knows 
something.  Talk  to  me!  It's  just  as  I  told  David, 
true  talent  makes  its  way  easily  enough  in  Paris." 

Lucien  returned  home  happy  and  light  of  heart; 
he  was  dreaming  of  glory.  Forgetting  the  words 
of  sinister  import  that  had  fallen  upon  his  ear  in 
Vidal  and  Porchon's  counting-room,  he  fancied  him- 
self already  in  possession  of  twelve  hundred  francs. 
Twelve  hundred  francs  represented  a  year's  stay 
in  Paris,  a  year,  during  which  he  would  produce 
new  works.  How  many  projects  did  he  build  upon 
that  hope !  How  many  sweet  dreams  did  he  dream, 
when  he  saw  his  livelihood  fairly  established  upon 
hard  work!  He  arranged  his  rooms  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, and  was  very  near  making  some  pur- 
chases. He  allayed  his  impatience  only  by  reading 
incessantly  at  Blosse's  bookstall.  Two  days  later 
old  Doguereau,  surprised  at  the  style  displayed  by 


312  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

Lucien  in  his  first  work,  enchanted  by  the  exagger- 
ation of  the  characters,  quite  permissible  in  dealing 
with  the  epoch  in  which  the  scene  of  the  romance 
was  laid,  and  impressed  by  the  imaginative  ardor 
with  which  a  young  author  sketches  his  first  plot — 
Pere  Doguereau  was  not  spoiled ! — came  to  the  hotel 
where  his  Walter  Scott  in  germ  had  his  abode.  He 
had  decided  to  pay  a  thousand  francs  outright  for 
the  manuscript  of  L' Archer  de  Charles  IX.,  and  to 
bind  Lucien  by  an  agreement  for  several  works  to 
be  produced.  When  he  saw  the  hotel,  the  old  fox 
revised  his  decision. 

"A  young  man  who  lives  in  such  a  place  as 
that  has  only  modest  tastes;  he  loves  study  and 
hard  work;  I  need  give  him  only  eight  hundred 
francs." 

The  landlady,  when  he  inquired  for  Monsieur  Lu- 
cien de  Rubempre,  replied: 

"Fourth  floor." 

The  bookseller  looked  up  and  saw  nothing  but  the 
sky  above  the  fourth  floor. 

"This  young  man,"  he  thought,  "is  a  pretty 
fellow,  indeed  he's  very  handsome;  if  he  should 
earn  too  much  money,  he  would  plunge  into  dissi- 
pation and  wouldn't  work.  In  our  common  interest, 
I  will  offer  him  six  hundred  francs;  but  in  cash,  not 
notes." 

He  ascended  the  stairs  and  knocked  thrice  on  Lu- 
cien's  door,  which  was  opened  by  Lucien  himself. 
The  room  was  desperately  bare.  There  was  a  bowl 
of  milk  and  a  two-sou  roll  on  the  table.     Goodman 


L'ARCHER   DE   CHARLES   IX. 


When  he  saw  the  hotel,  the  old  fox  revised  his 
decision. 

"A  young  man  who  lives  in  such  a  place  as  that 
has  only  modest  tastes;  he  loves  study  and  hard 
work  ;  I  need  give  him  only  eight  hundred  francs? 
********* 

He  ascended  the  stairs  and  knocked  thrice  on 
Lucia? s  door,  which  was  opened  by  Lucien  himself. 
The  room  was  desperately  bare. 


,    ' 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  3 13 

Doguereau  was  deeply  impressed  to  find  genius  in 
such  destitute  circumstances. 

"Let  him  preserve  these  simple  manners,"  he 
thought,  "this  frugality,  these  modest  needs. — It 
gives  me  pleasure  to  see  you,"  he  said  to  Lucien. 
"This,  monsieur,  is  the  way  Jean- Jacques  lived, 
whose  career  yours  is  likely  to  resemble  in  more 
ways  than  one.  In  such  lodgings  as  these,  the  fire 
of  genius  burns  and  great  works  are  produced. 
This  is  how  men  of  letters  ought  to  live,  instead  of 
gormandizing  in  cafes  and  restaurants,  and  wasting 
their  time  and  talent  and  our  money  there." 

He  sat  down. 

"Young  man,  your  novel  is  not  bad.  I  have 
been  a  professor  of  rhetoric  and  I  know  the  history 
of  France;  there  are  some  excellent  things  in  it. 
In  fact,  you  have  a  future." 

"Ah!  monsieur." 

"I  tell  you,  we  can  afford  to  do  business  together. 
1  will  buy  your  novel — " 

Lucien's  heart  expanded,  he  breathed  freely;  he 
was  about  to  enter  the  world  of  literature,  his  work 
would  be  printed  at  last. 

"1  will  buy  it  of  you  for  four  hundred  francs," 
said  Doguereau  sweetly,  glancing  at  Lucien  with 
an  expression  that  seemed  to  proclaim  a  great  ex- 
hibition of  generosity. 

"Four  hundred  francs  the  volume?"  queried 
Lucien. 

"The  whole  novel,"  said  Doguereau,  betraying 
no  astonishment  at  Lucien's  surprise.     "But,"  he 


314  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

added,  "it  will  be  cash  down.  You  will  undertake 
to  write  two  novels  a  year  for  me  for  six  years. 
If  the  first  is  exhausted  in  six  months,  I  will  pay 
you  six  hundred  francs  for  those  that  come  after. 
Thus,  by  writing  two  a  year,  you  will  have  a 
hundred  francs  a  month,  your  living  will  be  assured 
and  you  will  be  very  fortunate.  1  have  some  authors 
to  whom  I  pay  only  three  hundred  francs  a  novel.  I 
give  two  hundred  francs  for  a  translation  from  the 
English.  Formerly  this  price  would  have  been 
considered  exorbitant." 

"We  cannot  make  a  bargain,  monsieur;  I  beg 
you  to  return  my  manuscript,"  said  Lucien,  in  a 
freezing  tone. 

"There  you  are,"  said  the  old  bookseller.  "You 
know  nothing  about  business,  monsieur.  In  pub- 
lishing an  author's  first  novel,  a  publisher  has  to 
risk  sixteen  hundred  francs  for  the  paper  and  print- 
ing. It's  easier  to  write  a  novel  than  to  find  such 
a  sum  of  money  as  that.  I  have  the  manuscripts  of 
a  hundred  novels  at  my  shop,  and  I  haven't  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty  thousand  francs  in  my  cash-box. 
Alas !  I  haven't  made  as  much  as  that  in  the  twenty 
years  I've  been  in  the  business.  Fortunes  are  not 
to  be  made  at  the  trade  of  publishing  novels.  Vidal 
and  Porchon  won't  take  them  from  us  except  on 
conditions  that  become  every  day  more  burdensome 
to  us.  Where  you  risk  only  your  time,  I  have  to 
put  out  two  thousand  francs.  If  we  make  a  mis- 
take— for  habent  sua  fata  libelli — I  lose  two  thou- 
sand francs,  while  you  have  simply  to  dash  off  an 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  315 

ode  on  the  subject  of  public  stupidity.  After  you 
have  meditated  upon  what  I  have  the  honor  to  say 
to  you,  you  will  come  and  see  me  again. — You  will 
come  to  me  again,"  the  bookseller  repeated  author- 
itatively, in  reply  to  a  gesture  of  superb  disdain  on 
Lucien's  part.  "Far  from  finding  a  publisher  who 
will  risk  two  thousand  francs  for  a  young  and  un- 
known man,  you  won't  find  a  clerk  who  will  take 
the  trouble  to  read  your  scrawl.  I,  who  have  read 
it,  can  point  out  several  errors  in  your  French. 
You  have  put  observer  for  faire  observer,  and  you 
say  malgr'e  que :  Malgre  takes  a  direct  object." 

Lucien  seemed  humiliated. 

"When  I  see  you  again,  you  will  have  lost  a 
hundred  francs,"  added  Doguereau,  "for  then  I 
will  give  you  only  three  hundred." 

He  rose  and  bowed,  but  on  the  threshold  he 
stopped  and  said : 

"If  you  had  not  talent  and  a  future,  if  I  were  not 
interested  in  studious  young  men,  I  would  not  have 
proposed  such  advantageous  terms.  A  hundred 
francs  a  month!  Think  of  it.  After  all,  a  novel  in 
a  drawer  isn't  like  a  horse  in  the  stable,  it  doesn't 
eat  any  food.  Upon  my  word,  they  don't  give  as 
much  for  them  now!" 

Lucien  took  his  manuscript  and  threw  it  on  the 
floor,  crying: 

"I  would  rather  burn  it,  monsieur!" 

"You  have  a  poet's  head,"  said  the  old  man. 

Lucien  devoured  his  roll,  swallowed  his  milk  and 
went  downstairs.     His  room  was  not  large  enough; 


316  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

he  could  do  nothing  there  but  pace  back  and  forth 
like  a  lion  in  its  cage  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 
At  the  Bibliotheque  Sainte-Genevieve,  whither  he 
purposed  going,  he  had  often  noticed,  always  in  the 
same  corner,  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-five 
years,  working  with  that  sustained  application 
which  nothing  distracts  or  disturbs,  and  by  which 
genuine  literary  workmen  can  always  be  recognized. 
Evidently  the  young  man  had  long  been  a  frequenter 
of  the  library,  for  the  attendants  and  the  librarian 
himself  were  most  obliging  to  him;  the  librarian 
allowed  him  to  take  away  books  which  Lucien  saw 
the  studious  stranger  bring  back  the  next  morning. 
He  recognized  in  him  a  brother  in  poverty  and 
hope.  Short,  slender  and  pale,  this  persistent  toiler 
concealed  a  fine  forehead  beneath  a  mass  of  un- 
kempt black  hair;  he  had  shapely  hands,  he  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  the  indifferent  by  a  vague 
resemblance  to  the  engraving  of  the  portrait  of 
Bonaparte  by  Robert  Lefebvre.  The  engraving  in 
question  is  in  itself  a  whole  poem  of  glowing  mel- 
ancholy, of  restrained  ambition, of  concealed  activity. 
Examine  it  carefully;  you  will  find  therein  genius 
and  discretion,  tact  and  grandeur.  The  eyes  are  as 
bright  as  a  woman's.  The  glance  is  greedy  of 
space  and  longs  for  difficulties  to  overcome.  Even 
if  Bonaparte's  name  were  not  written  beneath  it, 
you  would  gaze  as  long  upon  it. 

The  young  man  whose  face  so  resembled  that 
face,  ordinarily  wore  trousers  made  with  feet  like 
stocking  feet,   in  thick-soled  shoes,  a  frockcoat  of 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  3 17 

very  ordinary   material,   a   black    cravat,   a   gray 
and  white  mixed  waistcoat  buttoned  to  the  neck, 
and  a  cheap  hat.     His  contempt  for  everything  use- 
less in  the  way  of  dress  was  perceptible.     Lucien 
found  this  mysterious  stranger,  marked  with  the  seal 
that  genius  stamps  upon  the  brows  of  its  slaves, 
the  most  regular  of  all  the  habitues  of  Flicoteaux's; 
he  ate  there  to  live,  heedless  of  the  various  dishes 
with  which  he  seemed  familiar,  and  he  drank  noth- 
ing but  water.     At  Flicoteaux's,  as  at  the  library, 
he  displayed  a  sort  of  dignity,  due  without  doubt 
to  the  consciousness  of  a  life  intent  upon  something 
great,  which  made  him  unassailable.     His  expres- 
sion was  pensive.     Meditation  dwelt  upon  his  nobly- 
proportioned,  handsome  forehead.     His  bright  black 
eyes,  which  saw  clearly  and    quickly,   denoted  a 
habit  of  going  to  the  bottom  of  things.     Simple  in 
his  bearing,  he  had  a  grave  and  thoughtful  face. 
Lucien  had  an  involuntary  feeling  of  respect  for 
him.     Several  times  already,  they  had  looked  at 
each  other  as  if  on  the  point  of  speaking,  as  they 
went  in  or  out  of  the    library  or  restaurant,   but 
neither  had  thus  far  ventured.     The  silent  young 
man  sat  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  in  the  part 
that  ran  at  right  angles  to  Place  de  la  Sorbonne; 
Lucien  therefore  had  been  unable  to  form  an  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  although  he  felt  drawn  toward 
him,  for  his  whole  appearance  exhibited  unmistak- 
able  symptoms  of  superiority.     As  they  came  to 
realize  later,  they  were  two  untried,  inexperienced, 
retiring  natures,   subject  to  all  the  apprehensions 


318  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

whose  emotions  amuse  solitary  men.  Had  it  not 
been  for  their  sudden  meeting  at  the  moment  of 
Lucien's  disastrous  experience,  perhaps  they  would 
never  have  become  acquainted.  But,  as  he  turned 
into  Rue  des  Gres,  Lucien  saw  the  young  stranger 
coming  from  Sainte-Genevieve. 

"The  library  is  closed,  monsieur,  I  don't  know 
why,"  he  said. 

At  that  moment  Lucien  had  tears  in  his  eyes; 
he  thanked  the  unknown  with  one  of  those  gestures 
which  are  more  eloquent  than  speech,  and  which, 
as  between  young  man  and  young  man,  open  hearts 
at  once.  They  walked  together  down  Rue  des  Gres 
toward  Rue  de  la  Harpe. 

"Then  1  will  go  and  walk  in  the  Luxembourg 
garden,"  said  Lucien.  "When  one  has  once  come 
out,  it  is  hard  to  return  and  work." 

"One  is  no  longer  in  the  current  of  necessary 
ideas, ' '  observed  the  stranger.  ' '  You  seem  unhappy, 
monsieur?" 

"I  have  just  had  a  singular  experience,"  said 
Lucien. 

He  described  his  visit  to  the  quay,  then  to  the 
old  bookseller  and  the  proposition  he  had  made;  he 
told  his  name  and  said  a  few  words  as  to  his  situa- 
tion. In  about  a  month,  he  had  spent  sixty  francs 
for  board,  thirty  francs  at  the  hotel,  twenty  francs 
at  the  theatre,  ten  francs  at  the  bookstall — in  all  a 
hundred  and  twenty  francs, — and  he  had  only  a 
hundred  and  twenty  francs  left. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  stranger,   "your   story  is 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  319 

identical  with  my  own  and  with  those  of  a  thousand 
to  twelve  hundred  young  men  who  come  to  Paris 
every  year  from  the  provinces.  We  are  not  the 
most  unfortunate  men  in  the  world.  Do  you  see 
that  theatre?"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  turrets  of 
the  Odeon.  "One  day  a  man  of  talent  who  had 
wallowed  in  the  slough  of  absolute  destitution,  took 
up  his  abode  in  one  of  the  houses  on  the  square; 
married  to  a  woman  he  loved — a  refinement  of 
misery  by  which  neither  of  us  is  as  yet  oppressed; 
poor  or  rich,  as  you  choose,  in  the  possession  of 
two  children ;  over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  but  with 
full  confidence  in  his  pen.  He  offers  at  the  Odeon 
a  comedy  in  five  acts,  it  is  accepted,  it  has  a  favor- 
able reception,  the  actors  rehearse  it  and  the  man- 
ager hurries  forward  the  rehearsals.  These  five 
pieces  of  good  fortune  constitute  five  dramas  even 
more  difficult  of  realization  than  the  task  of  writing 
five  acts.  The  poor  author,  living  in  an  attic  that 
you  can  see  from  here,  exhausts  his  last  remaining 
resources  in  order  to  live  during  the  preparations 
for  the  performance  of  his  play,  his  wife  carries  his 
clothes  to  the  Mont-de-Piete,  the  family  eats  noth- 
ing but  bread.  On  the  day  of  the  last  rehearsal, 
the  eve  of  the  first  performance,  they  owed  fifty 
francs  in  the  quarter,  to  the  baker,  the  milkwoman 
and  the  concierge.  The  poet  had  retained  what 
was  absolutely  necessary,  a  coat,  shirt,  waistcoat, 
trousers  and  boots.  Sure  of  success,  he  embraces 
his  wife  and  tells  her  that  the  end  of  their  misery 
is  at  hand.     'Indeed  there  is   no  longer  a  chance 


320  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

against  us!'  he  cries. — 'There  is  fire,'  says  the 
wife;  'look,  the  Odeon  is  burning!'  Monsieur, 
the  Odeon  was  burning.  So  don't  complain.  You 
have  clothes,  you  have  no  wife  or  children,  you 
have  luck  to  the  amount  of  a  hundred  and  twenty 
francs  in  your  pocket  and  you  owe  nothing  to  any- 
body. The  play  was  finally  performed  a  hundred 
and  fifty  times  at  the  Theatre  Louvois.  The  king 
bestowed  a  pension  on  the  author.  As  Buffon  has 
said,  genius  is  patience.  Patience  is,  in  truth,  that 
quality  in  man  which  most  nearly  resembles  the 
process  that  nature  employs  in  her  creations. 
What  is  art,  monsieur?  it  is  nature  in  a  concen- 
trated form." 

The  two  young  men  were  by  this  time  at  the 
Luxembourg.  Lucien  learned  the  name,  since  be- 
come famous,  of  the  person  who  strove  to  comfort 
him.  The  young  man  was  Daniel  d'Arthez,  to-day 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  writers  of  our  age,  and 
one  of  those  rare  beings,  who,  as  a  poet  has  so  finely 
said,  present  "the  perfect  union  of  a  noble  charac- 
ter and  noble  talent." 

"One  cannot  be  a  great  man  for  nothing,"  said 
Daniel  in  his  soothing  voice.  "Genius  waters  her 
works  with  her  tears.  Talent  is  a  moral  being, 
which  has,  like  all  beings,  a  childhood  subject  to 
childish  maladies.  Society  spurns  incomplete 
talents,  as  nature  makes  way  with  feeble  or  ill- 
developed  creatures.  The  man  who  would  soar 
above  his  fellows  must  make  ready  for  a  struggle, 
recoil  at  no  obstacle.     A  great  writer  is  a  martyr 


u 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  321 

who  will  not  die,  that's  the  whole  of  it.  You  have 
on  your  forehead  the  stamp  of  genius,"  said  D'Ar- 
thez  to  Lucien,  with  a  glance  that  enveloped  him 
from  head  to  foot;  "if  you  have  not  her  strong  will 
in  your  heart,  if  you  have  not  her  angelic  patience, 
if,  however  far  from  your  goal  you  may  be  driven 
by  the  caprice  of  destiny,  you  do  not  constantly 
resume  the  road  to  your  infinitude  of  glory,  as  the 
tortoise,  in  whatever  country  he  may  be,  resumes 
the  road  to  his  beloved  Ocean, — then  do  you  re- 
nounce the  pursuit  to-day." 

"Do  you  too  expect  suffering,  pray,  monsieur?" 
said  Lucien. 

"Trials  of  every  sort;  slander,  treachery,  injus- 
tice on  the  part  of  my  rivals;  the  insults,  the  cun- 
ning, the  sharp  dealing  of  tradesmen,"  the  young 
man  replied  in  a  resigned  voice.  "If  your  work  is 
worthy,  what  matters  a  loss  at  first?" 

"Will  you  read  mine  and  pass  judgment  on  it?" 
said  Lucien. 

"I  will,"  said  D'Arthez.  "I  live  on  Rue  des 
Quatre-Vents,  in  a  house  where  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  men,  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  of  our 
day,  a  phenomenon  in  science,  Desplein,  the  greatest 
surgeon  ever  known,  suffered  his  first  martyrdom, 
struggling  with  the  initial  difficulties  of  life  and  glory 
in  Paris.  That  remembrance  gives  me  every  night 
the  dose  of  courage  of  which  I  stand  in  need  every 
morning.  I  am  in  the  room  where  he,  like  Rousseau, 
has  so  often  eaten  bread  and  cherries,  but  without 
Therese.  Come  in  an  hour;  I  will  be  there." 
21 


322  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

The  two  poets  parted,  pressing  each  other's  hands 
with  an  indescribable  effusion  of  melancholy  emo- 
tion. Lucien  went  to  get  his  manuscript.  Daniel 
d'Arthez  went  to  the  Mont-de-Piete  to  pawn  his 
watch  and  buy  a  couple  of  bundles  of  wood,  so  that 
his  new  friend  should  find  a  fire  in  his  room,  for  it 
was  quite  cold. 

Lucien  was  punctual  to  his  appointment;  first  of 
all,  he  saw  a  house  of  less  respectable  aspect  than 
his  own  hotel;  a  house  with  a  dark  passage,  at  the 
end  of  which  he  could  distinguish  an  ill-lighted 
staircase.  Daniel  d'Arthez's  room,  on  the  fifth 
floor,  had  two  wretched  windows  between  which 
stood  a  bookcase  blackened  by  time  and  use  and 
filled  with  ticketed  boxes.  A  poor  cot-bed  of  painted 
wood,  not  unlike  those  seen  in  college  rooms,  a 
night-table  purchased  at  second  hand  and  two  horse- 
hair covered  armchairs  stood  in  the  back  part  of  the 
room,  the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  a  Scotch 
paper  varnished  by  smoke  and  by  time.  A  long 
table  covered  with  papers  stood  between  the  fire- 
place and  the  two  windows.  Opposite  the  fireplace 
was  a  dilapidated  mahogany  commode.  A  second- 
hand carpet  entirely  covered  the  floor.  That  neces- 
sary luxury  saved  fuel.  In  front  of  the  table  was  a 
common  desk-chair  covered  with  red  sheepskin 
worn  white  by  long  use,  which  with  six  other  com- 
mon chairs  completed  the  furnishing  of  the  room. 
Lucien  noticed  an  old  metal  candlestick  with  a 
screen,  provided  with  four  wax  candles.  When 
he  asked  for  an  explanation  of   the  wax  candles, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  323 

detecting  on  all  sides  symptoms  of  extreme  poverty, 
D'Arthez  replied  that  it  was  absolutely  impossible 
for  him  to  endure  the  odor  of  a  tallow-dip.  This 
circumstance  indicated  a  most  delicate  sense  of 
smell,  the  sure  indication  of  exquisite  sensitiveness. 

The  reading  lasted  seven  hours.  Daniel  listened 
religiously,  without  making  a  remark  of  any  sort, 
one  of  the  rarest  proofs  of  refined  taste  that  an 
auditor  can  give. 

"Well?"  said  Lucien,  placing  the  manuscript  on 
the  mantelpiece. 

"You  have  started  upon  a  noble  and  glorious 
road, "  said  the  young  man  gravely ;  "but  your  work 
must  be  rewritten.  If  you  don't  want  to  be  Walter 
Scott's  mimic  and  nothing  else,  you  must  form  a 
different  style,  for  you  have  palpably  imitated  him. 
You  begin,  as  he  does,  with  long  conversations  to 
explain  the  position  of  your  characters;  when  they 
have  had  their  talk,  you  begin  the  description  and 
action.  That  antagonism  which  is  essential  to 
every  dramatic  work  comes  in  last  of  all.  Reverse 
the  terms  of  the  problem.  Replace  these  diffuse 
conversations,  which  are  magnificent  in  Scott's 
hands  but  colorless  in  yours,  with  descriptive  pas- 
sages, to  which  our  language  is  so  well  adapted. 
Let  the  dialogue  in  your  case  be  the  natural  conse- 
quence that  crowns  your  preparations.  Enter  upon 
the  action  of  the  drama  first  of  all.  Take  your  sub- 
ject sometimes  around  the  body,  sometimes  by  the 
tail;  in  a  word,  vary  your  plots  so  that  you  may 
never  be  twice  the  same.     You  will  do  a  new  thing 


324  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

in  adapting  to  the  history  of  France  the  form  of  the 
Scotchman's  dramatic  dialogue.  Walter  Scott  is 
entirely  without  passion;  he  knows  nothing  of  it, 
or  perhaps  it  is  forbidden  him  by  the  hypocritical 
customs  of  his  country.  In  his  view,  woman  is 
duty  incarnate.  With  rare  exceptions,  his  heroines 
are  absolutely  the  same ;  he  had  but  one  sketch  for 
them  all,  as  painters  say.  They  are  all  based  upon 
Clarissa  Harlowe;  as  he  refers  them  all  to  one  idea, 
he  could  do  no  more  than  make  many  copies  of  the 
same  type,  varied  by  the  more  or  less  vivid  color- 
ing. Woman  sows  discord  in  society  through  pas- 
sion. Passion  has  an  infinite  number  of  accidents. 
Depict  the  passions  then ;  you  will  have  vast  stores 
to  draw  upon,  of  which  that  great  genius  deprived 
himself  in  order  that  he  might  be  read  in  all  the 
families  of  prudish  England.  In  France,  you  will 
find  fascinating  peccadilloes,  and  manners  and  cus- 
toms glowing  with  Catholicism  to  contrast  with  the 
sombre  figures  of  Calvinism  during  the  most  impas- 
sioned period  of  our  history.  Each  authenticated 
reign,  from  Charlemagne  down,  will  require  at 
least  one  work,  and  some  will  require  four  or  five, 
as  those  of  Louis  XIV.,  Henri  IV.  and  Francois  I. 
Thus  you  will  write  a  picturesque  history  of 
France,  in  which  you  will  depict  the  costumes,  the 
furniture,  the  houses,  without  and  within,  and  the 
details  of  private  life,  at  the  same  time  imparting 
to  your  work  the  spirit  of  the  time  of  which  it 
treats,  instead  of  laboriously  working  over  known 
facts.     You  have   a   means   of   being   original    by 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  325 

sweeping  away  the  popular  errors  that  disfigure  the 
memories  of  most  of  our  kings.  Dare,  in  your  first 
work,  to  rehabilitate  the  grand  and  magnificent 
figure  of  Catherine,  whom  vou  have  sacrificed  to 
the  prejudices  that  are  still  hovering  over  her. 
Lastly,  paint  Charles  IX.  as  he  was,  not  as  Protes- 
tant writers  have  made  hfm.  After  ten  years  of 
persistent  toil,  you  will  attain  glory  and  fortune." 
It  was  then  nine  o'clock.  Lucien  imitated  the 
secret  action  of  his  future  friend  by  asking  him  to 
dine  with  him  at  Edon's,  where  he  spent  twelve 
francs.  During  the  dinner,  Daniel  confided  the 
secret  of  his  hopes  and  his  labors  to  Lucien. 
D'Arthez  would  not  admit  the  possibility  of  any 
extraordinary  talent  without  profound  knowledge  of 
metaphysics.  He  was  engaged  at  that  moment  in 
despoiling  ancient  and  modern  times  of  all  their 
treasures  of  philosophy,  in  order  to  assimilate  them 
to  one  another.  He  desired,  like  Moliere,  to  be  a 
profound  philosopher  before  writing  comedies. 
He  studied  the  written  world  and  the  living 
world,  thought  and  deed.  He  had  for  friends, 
learned  naturalists,  young  doctors,  political  writers 
and  artists,  a  society  of  studious,  serious-minded 
men  with  brilliant  futures.  He  made  his  living  by 
conscientious  and  poorly  paid  articles,  written  for 
biographical  dictionaries,  encyclopaedias  or  diction- 
aries of  the  natural  sciences;  he  wrote  neither  more 
nor  less  than  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  do  in  order 
to  live  and  to  be  able  to  follow  out  his  thought.  He 
had  an  imaginative  work,  undertaken  solely  for  the 


326  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

purpose  of  studying  the  resources  of  the  language. 
This  book,  still  unfinished,  taken  up  and  laid  aside 
capriciously,  he  kept  for  days  of  great  distress.  It 
was  a  psychological  work  of  lofty  purpose  under 
the  form  of  a  novel. 

Although  Daniel  displayed  his  talent  modestly, 
he  assumed  gigantic  proportions  in  Lucien's  eyes. 
When  they  left  the  restaurant,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
Lucien  had  conceived  a  strong  friendship  for  this 
unobtrusive  virtue,  for  this  unconsciously  sublime 
nature.  The  poet  did  not  discuss  Daniel's  advice, 
he  followed  it  to  the  letter.  His  eminent  talent, 
already  matured  by  thought  and  by  a  single,  un- 
published criticism,  made  for  his  own  benefit,  not 
for  another's,  had  suddenly  opened  before  him  the 
doors  of  the  most  magnificent  palaces  of  the  imagi- 
nation. The  provincial's  lips  had  been  touched  by  a 
glowing  coal  and  the  words  of  the  hard-working 
Parisian  found  the  soil  all  prepared  in  the  brain  of 
the  poet  of  Angouleme.  Lucien  set  about  recasting 
his  work. 


* 

Overjoyed  to  have  met  in  the  Parisian  desert  a 
heart  overflowing  with  generous  sentiments  in 
harmony  with  his  own,  the  provincial  great  man 
did  what  all  young  men  do  who  are  hungering  for 
affection:  he  clung  to  D'Arthez  like  a  chronic  dis- 
ease, he  called  for  him  to  go  to  the  library,  he 
walked  with  him  at  the  Luxembourg  when  the 
weather  was  fine,  he  went  with  him  every  evening 
to  his  poor  room,  after  dining  with  him  at  Flico- 
teaux's, — in  short,  he  pressed  close  to  his  side  as 
the  troops  pressed  close  to  one  another  in  the  frozen 
plains  of  Russia. 

During  the  early  days  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Daniel,  Lucien  noticed  with  pain  that  his  presence 
caused  a  certain  amount  of  embarrassment  when  his 
new  friend  and  his  chosen  intimates  were  together. 
The  conversation  of  those  superior  beings,  of  whom 
D'Arthez  spoke  to  him  with  heartfelt  enthusiasm, 
was  confined  within  the  limits  of  a  reserve  quite 
out  of  harmony  with  their  demonstrations  of  warm 
friendships.  Lucien  would  discreetly  take  his  leave 
at  such  times,  conscious  of  something  like  grief  at 
the  ostracism  to  which  he  was  subjected,  and  at  the 
interest  aroused  in  him  by  these  unknown  person- 
ages; for  they  all  called  one  another  by  their 
Christian  names.  All,  like  D'Arthez,  bore  upon 
their   foreheads   the    hall-mark   of   genius.      After 

(327) 


328  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

some  secret  opposition,  which  Daniel,  unknown  to 
Lucien,  exerted  himself  to  overcome,  he  was  deemed 
worthy  to  enter  this  brotherhood  of  great  minds. 
He  was  thus  enabled  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
these  men,  who  were  bound  together  by  the  keenest 
sympathy,  by  the  seriousness  of  their  intellectual 
existence,  and  who  met  almost  every  evening  at 
D'Arthez's  room.  One  and  all  felt  that  he  was  to 
be  a  great  writer;  they  had  looked  upon  him  as 
their  leader  since  they  had  lost  one  of  the  most  ex- 
ceptional minds  of  the  age,  their  first  leader,  a 
mystical  genius  who,  for  reasons  which  it  would  be 
useless  to  give,  had  returned  to  his  province,  and 
whom  Lucien  had  often  heard  spoken  of  by  the 
name  of  Louis.  One  will  readily  understand  to 
how  great  an  extent  these  men  were  likely  to 
arouse  the  interest  and  curiosity  of  a  poet,  if  we 
give  the  names  of  those  who,  like  D'Arthez,  have 
since  won  renown;  for  several  of  them  succumbed. 

Among  those  who  are  still  living  was  Horace 
Bianchon,  at  that  time  a  house-surgeon  at  the  Hotel- 
Dieu,  who  has  since  become  one  of  the  brilliant 
lights  of  the  Parisian  school  of  medicine,  and  who 
is  now  so  well  known  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  de- 
scribe his  personal  appearance  or  to  discuss  his 
character  and  the  nature  of  his  mind. 

Then  there  was  Leon  Giraud,  that  profound 
philosopher,  that  bold  theorist  who  dissects  all  sys- 
tems, passes  judgment  on  them,  expresses  them  by 
new  formulas  and  drags  them  at  the  feet  of  his 
idol,  HUMANITY;  always  great,  even  in  his  errors, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  329 

ennobled  by  his  perfect  good  faith.  This  intrepid 
worker,  this  conscientious  scholar,  has  become  the 
leader  of  a  school  of  politics  and  morals  upon  the 
merits  of  which  time  alone  can  pronounce.  Although 
his  convictions  have  cast  his  lines  in  regions  far 
removed  from  those  in  which  his  comrades  have 
followed  their  destinies,  he  has  none  the  less  re- 
mained their  faithful  friend.  Art  was  represented 
by  Joseph  Bridau,  one  of  the  best  painters  of  the 
younger  school.  Except  for  the  unavowed  misfor- 
tunes to  which  his  too  impressionable  nature  con- 
demns him,  Joseph,  whose  last  word  has  not  yet 
been  said,  by  the  way,  might  have  proved  a  worthy 
successor  of  the  great  masters  of  the  Italian  school; 
he  has  the  Roman  skill  in  drawing  and  the  Vene- 
tian genius  for  color ;  but  love  kills  him  and  does 
not  pierce  his  heart  alone :  love  shoots  his  arrows 
into  his  brain,  disturbs  the  current  of  his  life  and 
makes  his  work  strangely  uneven.  When  his 
ephemeral  mistress  makes  him  either  too  happy  or 
too  wretched,  Joseph  will  sometimes  send  to  the 
Exposition  sketches  in  which  the  colors  are  laid  on 
so  thick  as  to  mar  the  outlines,  or,  it  may  be,  a  pic- 
ture which  he  has  tried  to  finish  while  laboring 
under  the  burden  of  imaginary  sorrows,  and  in 
which  he  has  paid  such  close  attention  to  the  out- 
lines that  the  coloring,  in  which  he  is  a  master,  is 
entirely  forgotten.  He  constantly  disappoints  both 
the  public  and  his  friends.  Hoffman  would  have 
adored  him  for  his  bold  advances  in  the  field  of  art, 
for  his  caprices,  for  his  imagination.     When  he  is 


330  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

at  his  best,  he  arouses  admiration;  he  relishes  it, 
and  loses  his  head  when  he  fails  to  receive  praise 
for  abortive  works,  in  which  the  eyes  of  his  soul 
see  all  that  is  not  apparent  to  the  eyes  of  the  public. 
Capricious  to  the  last  degree,  his  friends  have 
sometimes  seen  him  destroy  a  completed  picture 
which  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  elaborated  too 
much. 

"There's  too  much  work  in  it,"  he  would  say; 
"it's  too  much  like  a  student." 

Original  always  and  sometimes  sublime,  he  has 
all  the  drawbacks  and  all  the  advantages  of  nervous 
organizations,  in  which  perfection  changes  to 
disease.  His  mind  is  a  twin-brother  to  Sterne's, 
but  without  the  taste  for  literary  toil.  His  witty 
remarks,  his  flashes  of  thought,  are  indescribably 
delicious.  He  is  eloquent  and  knows  how  to  love, 
with  due  allowance  for  his  caprices,  which  he  car- 
ries into  affairs  of  the  heart  as  well  as  into  his 
work.  He  was  dear  to  the  club  by  reason  of  those 
very  qualities  which  bourgeois  society  would  have 
called  his  failings.  Lastly,  there  was  Fulgence 
Ridal,  one  of  the  authors  of  our  day  who  possess 
the  greatest  genius  for  humor,  a  poet  indifferent  to 
fame,  who  tosses  to  the  stage  only  his  most  com- 
monplace productions,  and  retains  the  most  attrac- 
tive scenes  in  the  seraglio  of  his  brain,  for  himself 
and  his  friends;  who  seeks  from  the  public  only 
so  much  money  as  is  essential  to  his  independence, 
and,  when  he  has  obtained  it,  no  longer  chooses  to 
work.      Slothful    and  prolific  as  Rossini,    obliged, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  33 1 

like  all  great  comic  poets,  like  Moliere  and  Rabelais, 
to  look  at  everything  from  every  point  of  view,  he 
was  a  confirmed  sceptic,  he  could  and  did  laugh  at 
everything.  Fulgence  Ridal  is  a  great  practical 
philosopher.  His  knowledge  of  the  world,  his 
genius  for  observation,  his  contempt  for  renown, 
which  he  calls  ostentation,  have  not  withered  his 
heart.  As  active  in  behalf  of  others  as  he  is  in- 
different to  his  own  interests,  if  he  takes  a  step  for- 
ward, it  is  for  a  friend.  In  order  not  to  belie  his 
truly  Rabelaisian  mask,  he  does  not  despise  good 
cheer  nor  does  he  seek  it;  he  is  at  once  sad  and 
joyous.  His  friends  call  him  the  dog  of  the  regi- 
ment, and  nothing  could  describe  him  better  than 
that  sobriquet. 

Three  others  there  were,  at  least  as  superior  in 
mental  endowment  as  the  four  friends  whose  profiles 
we  have  painted,  who  fell  by  the  roadside  one  after 
another.  First,  Meyraux,  who  died  after  setting  in 
motion  the  celebrated  dispute  between  Cuvier  and 
Geoffroy  Saint-Hilaire, — a  great  question  which 
was  destined  to  divide  the  scientific  world  into  par- 
tisans of  one  or  the  other  of  those  two  men  of  equal 
genius,  a  few  months  before  the  death  of  him  who 
maintained  the  superiority  of  a  narrow,  analytical 
science  against  the  pantheist,  who  still  lives  and 
whom  Germany  reveres.  Meyraux  was  the  friend 
of  that  Louis  who  was  soon  to  be  snatched  away 
from  the  intellectual  world  by  a  premature  death 
which  he  had  foreseen.  To  these  two  men,  both 
marked  as  victims  by  death,  both  unknown  to-day 


332  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

despite  the  immense  extent  of  their  learning  and 
their  genius,  we  must  add  Michel  Chrestien,  a  re- 
publican of  lofty  aims  who  dreamed  of  the  federa- 
tion of  Europe,  and  who  counted  for  much  in  the 
moral  movement  of  theSaint-Simonists  in  1830.  A 
politician  of  the  force  of  Danton  or  Saint- Just,  but 
as  simple  and  gentle  as  a  girl,  full  of  illusions  and 
of  love,  endowed  with  a  melodious  voice  that  would 
have  enraptured  Mozart,  Weber  or  Rossini  and  with 
which  he  sang  certain  of  Beranger's  ballads  in  a 
way  to  make  the  heart  drunk  with  poesy,  with  love 
or  with  hope,  Michel  Chrestien,  poor  like  Lucien, 
like  Daniel,  like  all  the  rest,  earned  his  living  with 
Diogenes-like  recklessness.  He  made  indexes  for 
great  works,  prospectuses  for  publishers,  and  was 
as  mute  concerning  his  own  doctrines  as  a  tomb  is 
mute  concerning  the  secrets  of  its  dead.  This  joy- 
ous intellectual  Bohemian,  this  great  statesman, 
who  might  perhaps  have  changed  the  face  of  the 
world,  died  in  the  cloister  of  Saint-Merri  like  a 
common  soldier.  Some  tradesman's  bullet  there 
laid  low  one  of  the  noblest  creatures  who  trod  the 
soil  of  France.  Michel  Chrestien  died  for  other 
doctrines  than  his  own.  His  contemplated  federa- 
tion was  a  much  greater  menace  than  the  republican 
propaganda  to  European  aristocracy;  it  was  more 
rational  and  less  insane  than  the  shocking  ideas  of 
indefinite  freedom  proclaimed  by  the  young  mad- 
men who  put  themselves  forward  as  heirs  of  the 
Convention.  The  noble  plebeian  was  mourned  by 
all  who  knew  him;  there  is  not  one  of  them  who 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  333 

does  not  to  this  day  think  often  of  that  great,  un- 
known politician. 

These  nine  persons  composed  a  club  in  which 
esteem  and  friendship  kept  the  peace  between  the 
most  contradictory  ideas  and  doctrines.  Daniel 
d'Arthez,  a  Picardian  of  gentle  birth,  adhered  to  the 
monarchy  with  a  depth  of  conviction  equal  to  that 
with  which  Michel  Chrestien  clung  to  his  idea  of 
European  federalism.  Fulgence  Ridal  laughed  at 
the  philosophical  doctrines  of  Leon  Giraud,  who, 
in  turn,  predicted  to  D'Arthez  the  end  of  Chris- 
tianity and  of  the  family.  Michel  Chrestien,  who 
believed  in  the  religion  of  Christ,  the  divine  artisan 
of  the  law  of  equality,  defended  the  immortality  of 
the  soul  against  the  scalpel  of  Bianchon,  the  analyst 
par  excellence.  They  all  discussed  without  disput- 
ing. They  had  no  vanity,  each  having  only  the 
others  for  auditors.  They  told  one  another  of  their 
works,  and  consulted  one  another  with  the  adorable 
good  faith  of  youth.  If  any  serious  matter  came 
up,  any  one  of  them  would  lay  aside  his  own  opin- 
ion in  order  to  enter  into  the  ideas  of  his  friend, 
the  more  apt  to  assist  him  because  he  was  impartial 
in  relation  to  a  cause  or  a  work  outside  of  his  own 
ideas.  Almost  all  of  them  showed  a  yielding,  tol- 
erant spirit,  two  qualities  which  demonstrated  their 
superiority.  Envy,  that  ghastly  treasure  of  our 
disappointed  hopes,  our  abortive  talents,  our  fail- 
ures, our  wounded  self-esteem,  was  unknown  to 
them.  Moreover,  all  of  them  were  walking  in  dif- 
ferent paths.     Thus,  they  who,  like  Lucien,  were 


334  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

admitted  to  their  companionship,  felt  perfectly  at 
ease. 

True  talent  is  always  kindly  and  sincere,  frank 
and  not  stiff  and  formal ;  its  epigrams  give  pleasure 
to  the  mind  and  do  not  seek  to  wound  the  self-esteem. 
When  the  first  emotion  caused  by  involuntary  re- 
spect had  passed  away,  one  experienced  infinite 
delight  in  the  company  of  these  choice  spirits. 
Familiarity  did  not  lessen  each  one's  consciousness 
of  his  own  worth,  and  each  felt  a  profound  respect 
for  his  neighbor;  lastly,  as  each  was  conscious  of 
his  ability  to  be  in  his  turn  benefactor  or  bene- 
ficiary, they  all  accepted  favors  without  ceremony. 
Their  conversation,  always  delightful  to  listen  to 
and  never  tiresome,  embraced  the  most  varied  range 
of  subjects.  The  shafts  of  wit,  as  light  as  arrows, 
always  went  straight  and  swift  to  the  mark.  The 
great  external  misery  and  the  splendor  of  intellec- 
tual riches  produced  a  strange  contrast.  No  one 
thought  of  the  realities  of  life  except  as  a  source  of 
friendly  jesting. 

One  day  when  the  cold  season  gave  premature 
warning  of  its  approach,  five  of  D'Arthez's  friends 
made  their  appearance,  each  with  a  parcel  of  wood 
under  his  cloak,  one  and  all  having  had  the  same 
thought;  as  if  at  a  picnic  where  every  guest  was 
expected  to  bring  refreshment,  every  one  should 
contribute  a  pie.  Being  all  endowed  with  that 
moral  beauty  that  reacts  upon  form  and,  no  less 
than  midnight  toil, gilds  youthful  faces  with  a  divine 
shade,    they   presented   those   somewhat   irregular 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  335 

features  to  which  a  pure  life  and  the  fire  of  thought 
impart  regularity  and  purity.  Their  foreheads  were 
remarkable  for  their  poetic  amplitude.  Their 
bright,  sparkling  eyes  bore  witness  to  their  spotless 
lives.  The  sufferings  of  poverty,  when  they  made 
themselves  felt,  were  endured  so  cheerfully,  shared 
with  such  eagerness  by  all,  that  they  did  not  mar 
the  serenity  peculiar  to  the  faces  of  young  men  still 
free  from  serious  faults,  who  have  not  demeaned 
themselves  by  the  base  paltering  with  vice  induced 
by  poverty  endured  with  ill  grace,  by  the  longing 
to  succeed  without  choice  of  means  and  by  the  read- 
iness with  which  men  of  letters  accept  or  forgive 
treachery. 

The  thing  that  makes  friendships  indissoluble 
and  increases  their  charm  twofold  is  a  feeling  that 
is  lacking  in  love — certainty.  These  young  men 
were  sure  of  themselves;  the  enemy  of  one  became 
the  enemy  of  all,  and  they  would  have  sacrificed 
their  most  pressing  interests  to  maintain  the  holy 
union  of  their  hearts  unbroken.  All  being  incapa- 
ble of  a  base  act,  they  could  meet  every  accusation 
with  a  peremptory  denial  and  defend  one  another 
with  perfect  security.  Equally  noble  in  heart  and 
equally  strong  in  matters  of  sentiment,  they  could 
think  and  say  to  one  another  whatever  they  chose, 
within  the  domain  of  knowledge  and  intelligence; 
hence  the  innocence  of  their  intercourse,  the  light- 
headedness of  their  speech.  Certain  of  under- 
standing one  another,  their  minds  wandered  at 
will;   they  were  entirely  unceremonious  in  their 


336  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

dealings,  they  confided  their  sorrows  and  joys  to 
one  another,  and  thought  and  suffered  without  con- 
cealment The  exquisite  delicacy  that  makes  the 
fable  of  the  Two  Friends  a  treasury  for  great  minds, 
was  habitual  among  them.  Their  strictness  in  the 
matter  of  admitting  a  new  dweller  to  their  sphere 
can  be  imagined;  they  were  too  conscious  of  their 
greatness  and  their  happiness  to  disturb  the  latter 
by  opening  the  door  to  new  and  unknown  elements. 
This  federation  of  sentiments  and  interests  en- 
dured without  clash  or  misunderstanding  for  twenty 
years.  Death  alone,  which  removed  Louis  Lam- 
bert, Meyraux  and  Michel  Chrestien  from  the  cir- 
cle, could  diminish  the  number  of  stars  in  that 
noble  constellation.  When  the  last  named  fell,  in 
1832,  Horace  Bianchon,  Daniel  d'Arthez,  Leon 
Giraud,  Joseph  Bridau  and  Fulgence  Ridal,  heedless 
of  the  dangers  of  the  undertaking,  went  to  Saint- 
Merri  to  recover  his  body  in  order  to  pay  it  the  last 
earthly  honors,  although  the  political  furnace  was 
white  hot.  They  escorted  the  cherished  remains  to 
the  cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise  during  the  night. 
Horace  Bianchon  was  daunted  by  no  obstacle  and 
surmounted  them  all;  he  made  a  personal  applica- 
tion to  the  ministers,  avowing  to  them  his  long  and 
enduring  friendship  for  the  deceased  federalist.  It 
was  a  touching  scene,  engraved  forever  in  the 
memory  of  the  few  friends  who  assisted  the  five 
famous  men.  As  you  walk  through  the  beautiful 
cemetery,  you  will  notice  a  lot,  purchased  in  per- 
petuity, in  the  centre  of  which  rises  a  turf-covered 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  337 

mound  surmounted  by  a  cross  of  black  wood  upon 
which  this  name  is  carved  in  red  letters:  MICHEL 
CHRESTIEN.  It  is  the  only  monument  of  that  de- 
scription. The  five  friends  thought  it  fitting  to  do 
homage  to  that  simple-minded  man  in  this  simple 
way. 

Thus  the  fairest  dreams  of  sentiment  were  realized 
in  that  cold  attic.  There  a  band  of  brothers,  all 
equally  strong  in  different  branches  of  knowledge, 
mutually  enlightened  one  another  with  perfect  good 
faith,  telling  one  another  everything,  even  their 
unworthy  thoughts;  all  were  men  of  great  learning 
and  all  had  been  tried  in  the  crucible  of  poverty. 
Having  once  been  admitted  among  these  chosen 
mortals  and  accepted  as  their  equal,  Lucien  repre- 
sented poetry  and  beauty  there.  He  read  sonnets 
which  were  much  admired.  They  asked  him  for  a 
sonnet  as  he  asked  Michel  Chrestien  to  sing  him  a 
chanson.  Thus  Lucien  found  in  Rue  des  Quatre- 
Vents,  an  oasis  in  the  Parisian  desert. 

In  the  early  days  of  October,  Lucien,  having  ex- 
pended what  remained  of  his  money  for  a  little 
wood,  was  left  penniless  while  he  was  engaged 
most  intently  upon  the  recasting  of  his  book. 
Daniel  d'Arthez  burned  peat  and  endured  poverty, 
he  was  as  prudent  as  an  old  maid,  and  resembled 
a  miser,  so  methodical  was  he  in  his  habits.  His 
courage  spurred  on  Lucien's,  who,  being  a  new- 
comer in  the  club,  felt  an  invincible  repugnance  to 
speak  of  his  destitution.  One  morning  he  went  to 
the  Rue  du  Coq  to  sell  L' Archer  de  Charles  IX.  to 

22 


338  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

Doguereau,  but  did  not  find  him.  He  did  not  realize 
how  indulgent  great  minds  are.  Each  one  of  his 
friends  could  imagine  the  weaknesses  peculiar  to 
men  of  poetic  nature,  the  depression  that  follows 
the  efforts  of  the  mind  overexcited  by  the  contem- 
plation of  that  nature  which  it  is  their  mission  to 
reproduce.  Those  men,  so  strong  in  the  face  of 
their  own  misfortunes,  were  moved  by  Lucien's 
sufferings.  They  understood  his  lack  of  money. 
So  it  was  that  the  club  supplemented  the  evenings 
passed  in  pleasant  conversation,  in  profound  medi- 
tation, in  listening  to  poetry,  in  exchanging  confi- 
dences, in  soaring  on  unfettered  wings  through  the 
realms  of  the  intellect,  through  the  future  of  nations, 
through  the  vast  domains  of  history,  by  a  proceed- 
ing that  shows  how  little  Lucien  understood  his 
new  friends. 

"Lucien,  my  friend,"  said  Daniel,  "you  didn't 
come  to  Flicoteaux's  to  dinner  yesterday,  and  we 
know  why." 

Lucien  could  not  restrain  the  tears  that  rolled 
down  his  cheeks. 

"You  lacked  confidence  in  us,"  said  Michel 
Chrestien;  "we  will  make  a  cross  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  when  we  have  reached  ten — " 

"We  have  all  had  some  extra  work  to  do,"  said 
Bianchon;  "I  have  been  looking  after  a  rich  patient 
for  Desplein;  D'Arthez  has  written  an  article  for 
the  Revue  Encyclopedique ;  Chrestien  undertook  to 
sing  one  evening  in  the  Champs-Elysees  with  a 
handkerchief   and   four    candles;    but   he   found  a 


LOST    ILLUSIONS  339 

pamphlet  to  write  for  a  man  who  wants  to  become 
a  statesman,  and  he  gave  him  six  hundred  francs' 
worth  of  Machiavelli;  Leon  Giraud  has  borrowed 
fifty  francs  from  his  publisher,  Joseph  has  sold  some 
sketches,  and  Fulgence  had  his  play  given  on  Sun- 
day to  a  full  house." 

"Here  are  two  hundred  francs,"  said  Daniel; 
"take  them  and  see  that  you  don't  get  caught 
again." 

"Upon  my  word,  if  he  isn't  going  to  kiss  us,  as 
if  we  had  done  something  extraordinary!"  said 
Chrestien. 

To  convey  an  idea  of  the  pleasure  Lucien  enjoyed 
in  the  midst  of  that  living  encyclopaedia  of  angelic 
spirits,  of  young  men  instinct  with  the  varied  forms 
of  originality  that  each  of  them  derived  from  the 
branch  of  learning  which  he  cultivated,  it  will  be 
sufficient  to  quote  the  replies  Lucien  received,  on 
the  following  day,  to  a  letter  written  to  his  family, 
a  masterpiece  of  affection  and  wounded  sensitive- 
ness, a  pitiful  cry  torn  from  him  by  his  distress: 


David  Sechard  to  Lucien. 
"  my  dear  lucien  : 

"  You  will  find  enclosed  a  ninety  days'  draft,  to  your  order, 
for  two  hundred  francs.  You  can  negotiate  it  at  our  cor- 
respondent's, Monsieur  Metivier,  dealer  in  paper,  Rue  Ser- 
pente.  My  dear  Lucien,  we  have  absolutely  nothing.  My 
wife  has  undertaken  to  manage  the  printing  office  and  acquits 
herself  of  the  task  with  a  devotion,  patience  and  zeal  that 
make  me  bless  God  for  having  given  me  such  an  angel  for  a 


340  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

wife.  Even  she  realizes  how  impossible  it  is  for  us  to  send 
you  the  slightest  assistance.  But  my  dear  boy,  I  believe 
you  to  be  embarked  upon  such  a  promising  career,  accom- 
panied by  such  great  and  noble  hearts,  that  you  cannot  fail 
to  fulfil  your  glorious  destiny,  assisted  by  the  almost  divine 
intellects  of  Messieurs  Daniel  d'Arthez,  Michel  Chrestien 
and  Le'on  Giraud,  and  advised  by  Messieurs  Meyraux,  Bian- 
chon  and  Ridal,  whom  we  know  through  your  dear  letter.  I 
have  made  this  draft,  therefore,  without  Eve's  knowledge, 
and  I  will  find  some  way  to  pay  it  when  it  is  due.  Do  not 
turn  aside  from  the  path  you  have  chosen  :  it  is  rough,  but  it 
will  be  glorious.  I  would  rather  suffer  untold  ills  than  know 
that  you  had  fallen  into  some  slough  in  Paris,  where  I  have 
seen  so  many.  Have  the  courage  to  avoid,  as  you  are  doing, 
bad  places  and  bad  men,  light-headed  fools  and  men  of  letters 
of  a  certain  type  whom  1  learned  to  appraise  at  their  real 
value  during  my  stay  in  Paris.  In  short,  be  the  worthy 
emulator  of  those  celestial  minds  whom  your  letter  has  made 
dear  to  us.  Your  conduct  will  soon  be  rewarded.  Adieu,  my 
beloved  brother ;  you  have  rejoiced  my  heart,  for  I  did  not 
anticipate  so  much  courage  on  your  part. 

"  DAVID." 


Eve  Sechard  to  Lucien. 
"my  dear  brother: 

"  Your  letter  has  made  us  all  weep.  May  the  noble  hearts 
to  whom  your  good  angel  has  guided  you,  know  that  a 
mother  and  a  poor  young  wife  will  pray  to  God  morning  and 
evening  for  them  ;  and  if  the  most  fervent  prayers  ascend  as 
far  as  His  throne,  they  will  obtain  some  blessings  for  you 
all.  Yes,  my  brother,  their  names  are  written  on  my  heart. 
Ah !  1  shall  see  them  some  day.  Even  though  1  have  to 
make  the  journey  on  foot,  I  will  go  and  thank  them  for  their 
friendship  for  you,  for  it  has  spread  a  balm  upon  my  open 
wounds.    Here,  my  dear,  we  are  working  like  poor  mechanics. 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  341 

My  husband,  that  great,  unappreciated  man  whom  I  love 
more  every  day  as  I  discover  from  moment  to  moment  fresh 
treasures  in  his  heart,  has  abandoned  his  printing  office,  and 
I  can  guess  why :  your  poverty,  ours  and  our  mother's,  are 
killing  him.  Our  adored  David  is  devoured  like  Prometheus 
by  a  vulture,  a  ghastly,  sharp-beaked  sorrow.  As  for  him, 
the  noble-hearted  man,  he  hardly  heeds  it.  He  is  engrossed 
by  the  hope  of  a  fortune  in  store.  He  passes  all  his  time  ex- 
perimenting in  paper-making  ;  he  has  asked  me  to  attend  to 
the  business  in  his  place  and  he  assists  me  as  much  as  his 
preoccupation  permits.  Alas !  I  am  enceinte.  This  fact, 
which  would  under  certain  circumstances  have  overwhelmed 
me  with  joy,  makes  me  very  sad  in  our  present  situation.  My 
poor  mother  has  become  young  again,  she  has  recovered  all 
her  old  strength  for  her  fatiguing  occupation  of  nurse.  If  it 
were  not  for  anxiety  about  money,  we  should  be  very  happy. 
Old  Pere  Sechard  will  not  give  his  son  a  hard  ;  David  has 
been  to  see  him  to  borrow  a  few  sous  to  send  you,  for  your 
letter  drove  him  to  despair.  '  I  know  Lucien,  he  will  lose  his 
head  and  do  something  foolish,'  he  said.  I  scolded  him. 
'  My  brother,  fail  to  do  what  he  ought,  whatever  happens  ! ' 
I  replied.  '  Lucien  knows  that  I  should  die  of  grief  if  he 
did.'  Mother  and  I  have  pawned  some  little  things,  but 
David  has  no  suspicion  of  it ;  mother  will  redeem  them  as 
soon  as  she  gets  a  little  money.  In  that  way,  we  have  ob- 
tained a  hundred  francs  which  I  am  sending  you  by  express. 
Don't  think  ill  of  me  for  not  answering  your  first  letter,  my 
dear.  We  were  in  a  position  where  we  had  to  drudge  at 
night,  and  I  was  working  like  a  man.  Ah  !  I  didn't  know  I 
had  so  much  strength.  Madame  de  Bargeton  is  a  heartless, 
soulless  woman  ;  even  if  she  had  ceased  to  love  you,  she 
owed  it  to  herself  to  protect  you  and  help  you  after  tearing 
you  from  our  arms  to  cast  you  into  that  horrible  Parisian 
ocean,  where  one  needs  a  special  blessing  from  God  to  fall  in 
with  true  friends  amid  those  seas  of  men  and  interests.  She 
is  not  to  be  regretted.  I  did  wish  that  you  had  some  devoted 
woman  with  you,  a  second  myself;  but  now  that  I  know  you 


342  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

have  friends  who  have  the  same  feelings  for  you  that  we 
have,  my  mind  is  at  rest.  Spread  your  wings,  my  noble,  be- 
loved genius !  You  will  be  our  glory  as  you  already  are  our 
love. 

"EVE." 


"MY  DARLING  CHILD: 

"  After  what  your  sister  has  written,  I  can  only  give  you 
my  blessing  and  assure  you  that  my  prayers  and  my  thoughts 
are  full  of  you  alone,  alas !  to  the  detriment  of  those  I  have 
before  my  eyes  ;  for  there  are  hearts  in  which  the  absent  are 
always  right,  and  so  it  is  with  the  heart  of 

"YOUR  MOTHER." 

Thus,  two  days  later,  Lucien  was  able  to  repay 
his  friends  the  loan  they  had  offered  him  with  such 
delicacy.  Never  perhaps  had  life  seemed  fairer  to 
him,  but  the  impulsive  movement  of  his  self-esteem 
did  not  escape  the  profound  gaze  of  his  friends  or 
their  delicate  perception. 

"One  would  say  you  were  afraid  to  owe  us  any- 
thing," cried  Fulgence. 

"Oh!  the  pleasure  he  manifests  is  a  very  serious 
thing  in  my  eyes,"  said  Chrestien;  "it  confirms 
my  observations;  Lucien  is  vain." 

"He  is  a  poet,"  said  D'Arthez. 

"Do  you  bear  me  ill-will  for  a  feeling  as  natural 
as  mine?" 

"We  must  give  him  credit  for  not  concealing  from 
us  what  he  felt,"  said  Leon  Giraud,  "he  is  still 
frank;  but  I'm  afraid  that  he  will  suspect  us  sooner 
or  later." 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  343 

"Why,  pray?"  Lucien  asked. 

"We  can  read  your  heart,"  replied  Joseph  Bridau. 

"You  have  within  you,"  said  Michel  Chrestien, 
"a  diabolic  wit  with  which  you  will  justify  in  your 
own  eyes,  things  that  are  most  opposed  to  our  prin- 
ciples: instead  of  being  a  sophist  in  ideas,  you  will 
be  a  sophist  in  action." 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  it,"  said  D'Arthez.  "Lu- 
cien, you  will  have  admirable  discussions  with 
yourself,  in  which  you  will  be  great,  but  which  will 
lead  to  blameworthy  acts.  You  will  never  be  in 
accord  with  yourself." 

"Upon  what  do  you  base  your  diagnosis,  pray?" 
queried  Lucien. 

"Your  vanity  is  so  great,  my  dear  poet,  that  you 
show  it  even  in  your  friendship!"  cried  Fulgence. 
"All  vanity  of  that  sort  indicates  deplorable  egotism, 
and  egotism  is  the  bane  of  friendship." 

"Great  God!"  cried  Lucien,  "is  it  possible  that 
you  don't  know  how  dearly  I  love  you?" 

"If  you  loved  us  as  we  love  each  other,  would 
you  have  shown  so  much  eagerness  and  emphasis 
in  returning  what  it  gave  us  such  pleasure  to  give 
you?" 

"We  don't  lend  one  another  anything  here,  we 
give,"  said  Joseph  Bridau  bluntly. 

"Don't  think  us  rough,  my  dear  child,"  said 
Michel  Chrestien,  "we  look  ahead.  We  are  afraid 
of  seeing  you  some  day  prefer  the  pleasure  of  petty 
revenge  to  the  pleasure  of  our  pure  friendship. 
Read   Goethe's   Tasso,    the  greatest  work  of   that 


344  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

great  genius,  and  you  will  learn  there  that  the  poet 
loves  bright-colored  stuffs,  festivals,  triumphs, 
parade;  be  Tasso  without  his  folly.  Do  society 
and  its  pleasures  beckon  to  you  ?  Remain  here. 
Transport  to  the  region  of  ideas,  all  that  you  ask 
of  your  vanity.  Folly  for  folly,  be  virtuous  in  act 
and  vicious  in  thought,  instead  of  thinking  worthy 
thoughts  and  behaving  ill,  as  D'Arthez  said." 

Lucien  hung  his  head:  his  friends  were  right. 

"I  confess  that  I  am  not  so  strong  as  you  are,"  he 
said  looking  up  at  them  with  a  winning  expression. 
"I  haven't  the  loins  and  the  shoulders  with  which 
to  sustain  the  weight  of  Paris  or  to  struggle  cour- 
ageously. Nature  has  given  us  temperaments  and 
faculties  of  a  different  order,  and  you  know  better 
than  anyone,  the  reverse  side  of  virtue  and  vice. 
I  am  already  tired  out,  I  tell  you  in  confidence." 

"We  will  sustain  you,"  said  D'Arthez;  "that 
is  just  what  faithful  friends  are  good  for." 

"The  help  I  have  just  received  cannot  be  de- 
pended upon,  and  we  are  all  equally  poor;  I  shall 
soon  be  pursued  again  by  want.  Chrestien,  who 
is  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  first  comer,  can  do 
nothing  with  publishers.  Bianchon's  pursuits  lie 
in  an  entirely  different  direction.  D'Arthez  knows 
only  the  publishers  of  scientific  works  or  specialties, 
who  have  no  influence  with  the  publishers  of  nov- 
elties. Horace,  Fulgence,  Ridal  and  Bridau  work 
on  lines  that  take  them  a  hundred  leagues  from 
bookshops.  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  some- 
thing." 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  345 

"Make  up  your  mind  to  do  as  we  do,  suffer !"  said 
Bianchon;  "suffer  with  a  brave  heart  and  trust  to 
hard  work!" 

"But  that  which  is  only  suffering  to  you  is  death 
to  me,"  said  Lucien  earnestly. 

"Before  the  cock  crows  thrice,"  said  Leon  Gi- 
raud  with  a  smile,  "this  man  will  have  betrayed 
the  cause  of  hard  work  for  that  of  sloth  and  the 
vices  of  Paris." 

"To  what  has  hard  work  brought  you?"  laughed 
Lucien. 

"When  one  leaves  Paris  for  Italy,  one  doesn't 
find  Rome  half  way,"  said  Joseph  Bridau.  "You 
would  have  peas  grow  all  dressed  with  butter." 

"They  don't  grow  that  way  for  anybody  except 
the  eldest  sons  of  peers  of  France,"  said  Chrestien. 
"But  we  poor  fellows  plant  them  and  water  them, 
and  we  relish  them  all  the  more." 

The  conversation  took  a  jocose  turn  and  the  sub- 
ject was  changed.  Those  far-seeing  minds,  those 
kindly  hearts,  tried  to  make  Lucien  forget  this  little 
quarrel,  but  he  understood  thenceforth  how  hard  it 
was  to  deceive  them.  He  soon  reached  a  despairing 
frame  of  mind  which  he  carefully  concealed  from 
his  friends,  deeming  them  implacable  mentors.  His 
southern  nature,  which  ran  so  readily  over  the 
whole  keyboard  of  emotions,  led  him  to  form  the 
most  contrary  resolutions. 

Several  times  he  spoke  of  trying  his  hand  at 
writing  for  the  newspapers,  and  his  friends  invari- 
ably said: 


346  LOST    ILLUSIONS 

"Do  nothing  of  the  kind!" 

"It  would  be  the  tomb  of  the  comely,  the  gentle 
Lucien  whom  we  know  and  love,"  said  D'Arthez. 

"You  would  not  resist  the  constant  conflict  be- 
tween work  and  pleasure  that  is  found  in  the  lives 
of  journalists;  and  resistance  is  the  corner-stone  of 
virtue.  You  would  be  so  enchanted  with  the  exer- 
cise of  power,  with  the  right  of  life  and  death  over 
works  of  the  mind,  that  you  would  be  a  journalist 
in  two  months.  To  be  a  journalist  is  to  become 
proconsul  in  the  republic  of  letters.  He  who  can 
say  whatever  he  chooses  soon  reaches  the  point  of 
doing  whatever  he  chooses !  That  is  a  maxim  of  Na- 
poleon's and  is  easy  to  understand." 

"Would  you  not  be  with  me?"said  Lucien. 

"We  should  not  be  there,"  cried  Fulgence.  "As 
a  journalist,  you  would  no  more  think  of  us  than  the 
brilliant,  courted  dancer  at  the  Opera,  in  her  silk- 
lined  carriage,  thinks  of  her  native  village,  her  cows 
and  her  wooden  shoes.  You  have  the  qualities  of 
the  journalist,  brilliancy  and  promptness  of  thought, 
in  only  too  great  measure.  You  would  never  deny 
yourself  the  pleasure  of  letting  fly  a  shaft  of  wit, 
though  it  should  make  your  friend  weep.  I  see 
journalists  in  the  theatre  lobbies,  and  they  make 
me  shudder.  Journalism  is  a  hell,  a  pit  of  iniquity, 
falsehood,  treachery,  which  one  cannot  pass  through, 
and  from  which  one  can  emerge  unscathed  only 
when  protected,  as  Dante  was,  by  Virgil's  divine 
laurel-wreath." 

The  more  the  club  argued  with  Lucien  against 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  347 

that  course,  the  more  his  longing  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  danger  impelled  him  to  take  the 
risk  and  he  began  to  question  himself:  was  it  not 
absurd  to  allow  himself  to  be  surprised  again  by 
want  without  having  taken  any  steps  to  avert  it? 
In  view  of  the  failure  of  his  attempts  to  find  a  pur- 
chaser for  his  first  novel,  Lucien  felt  but  slightly 
tempted  to  write  a  second.  Moreover,  what  could 
he  live  on  while  he  was  writing  it?  He  had  ex- 
hausted his  stock  of  patience  during  a  month  of  pri- 
vation. Why  should  not  he  do  nobly  what  journalists 
did  in  a  conscienceless,  undignified  way?  His 
friends  insulted  him  with  their  suspicions  and  he 
would  prove  to  them  his  strength  of  mind.  Per- 
haps he  would  assist  them  some  day  and  be  the 
herald  of  their  renown! 

"After  all,  what  does  friendship  amount  to  that 
draws  back  at  the  idea  of  becoming  an  accomplice?" 
he  asked  Michel  Chrestien  one  evening,  when  he 
and  Leon  Giraud  had  walked  home  with  him. 

"We  draw  back  at  nothing,"  replied  Chrestien. 
' '  If  you  were  unfortunate  enough  to  kill  your  m istress, 
I  would  help  you  to  conceal  your  crime  and  might 
perhaps  esteem  you  still ;  but  if  you  should  become 
a  spy,  I  would  shun  you  with  horror,  for  then  you 
would  be  an  infamous  coward  with  premeditation. 
That  is  journalism  in  two  words.  Friendship  par- 
dons the  misstep,  the  irreflective  impulse  of  pas- 
sion ;  but  it  must  be  implacable  to  one  who  has 
deliberately  resolved  to  barter  his  soul  and  mind 
and  thought" 


348  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

''May  I  not  become  a  journalist  in  order  to  sell 
my  collection  of  poems  and  my  novel,  and  then 
abandon  the  trade  at  once?" 

"Machiavelli  might  act  so,  but  not  Lucien  de 
Rubempre,"  said  Leon  Giraud. 

"Very  well,"  cried  Lucien,  "I  will  show  you  that 
I  am  the  equal  of  Machiavelli." 

"Ah!"  cried  Michel,  pressing  Leon's  hand,  "you 
have  destroyed  him. — Lucien,"  he  continued,  "you 
have  three  hundred  francs  and  that  is  enough  to 
live  on  comfortably  for  three  months;  very  good, 
set  to  work  and  write  another  novel ;  D'Arthez  and 
Fulgence  will  help  you  with  the  plot;  you  will  im- 
prove, you  will  become  a  genuine  novelist.  I  will 
find  my  way  into  one  of  those  lupanars  of  thought, 
I  will  be  a  journalist  for  three  months,  I  will  sell 
your  books  for  you  to  some  bookseller  whose  publi- 
cations I  will  attack,  I  will  write  articles  and  will 
have  others  written  for  you;  we  will  make  the  book 
a  great  success,  you  will  be  a  great  man,  and  you 
will  still  be  our  Lucien." 

"You  must  have  a  very  low  opinion  of  me,  if  you 
think  that  I  would  succumb  where  you  would  be 
safe,"  said  the  poet. 

"O  mon  Dieu,  forgive  him,  for  he  is  a  mere 
child!"  cried  Michel  Chrestien. 

Having  polished  up  his  mind  during  the  evenings 
passed  with  D'Arthez  and  his  friends,  Lucien  began 
to  study  the  articles,  humorous  and  otherwise,  in 
the  less  important  newspapers.  Confident  that  he 
could   prove   himself   at   least  the   equal    of  their 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  349 

cleverest  editors,  he  tried  his  hand  secretly  at  that 
gymnastic  form  of  thought  and  went  out  one  morn- 
ing with  the  brilliant  idea  of  going  to  some  colonel 
of  those  light  horse  of  the  press  and  asking  for  em- 
ployment. He  arrayed  himself  in  his  most  distin- 
guished costume  and  as  he  crossed  the  bridges,  he 
thought  that  authors,  journalists,  writers,  his  future 
brethren  in  short,  would  show  a  little  more  consid- 
eration and  unselfishness  than  the  two  varieties  of 
publisher  with  whom  his  hopes  had  come  in  con- 
tact. He  would  surely  meet  with  sympathy, 
perhaps  with  true,  comforting  affection  like  that  he 
had  found  in  the  club  on  Rue  des  Quartre-Vents. 
A  prey  to  the  emotion  aroused  by  a  presentiment 
listened  to  but  resisted — a  form  of  emotion  to  which 
men  of  imagination  are  much  addicted — he  reached 
Rue  Saint-Fiacre,  near  Boulevard  Montmartre,  and 
halted  in  front  of  a  building  containing  the  offices 
of  a  small  newspaper,  a  building  whose  outward 
appearance  caused  his  heart  to  beat  fast  like  that 
of  a  young  man  about  to  enter  an  evil  place. 
Nevertheless,  he  went  up  to  the  offices,  which  were 
located  in  the  entresol.  In  the  first  room,  which 
was  divided  into  two  equal  parts  by  a  partition 
reaching  to  the  ceiling  consisting  in  part  of  boards 
and  in  part  of  an  iron  grating,  he  found  a  one-armed 
veteran  who  was  holding  several  reams  of  paper 
steady  on  his  head  with  his  only  hand,  and  had  be- 
tween his  teeth  the  certificate  required  by  the 
Stamp  Office.  This  poor  man,  whose  face  was  of 
a  yellowish  hue  and  studded  with  red  protuberances, 


350  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

to  which  he  owed  his  sobriquet,  Coloquinte,  pointed 
out  to  him  the  Cerberus  of  the  paper  behind  the 
grating.  He  was  an  old  officer,  decorated  with  the 
Cross,  his  nose  enveloped  in  gray  moustaches,  a 
black  silk  cap  on  his  head,  and  buried  in  a  blue 
frockcoat  of  ample  proportions  like  a  turtle  under  its 
shell. 

"With  what  number  does  monsieur  wish  his  sub- 
scription to  begin?"  asked  the  officer  of  the  Empire. 

"I  didn't  come  to  subscribe,"  Lucien  replied. 

As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  at  a  sign  on  the  door  op- 
posite that  by  which  he  had  entered  and  read  these 
words:  EDITORIAL  OFFICE;  and  beneath  them: 
The  public  is  not  admitted. 

"A  claim  then,  no  doubt?"  rejoined  Napoleon's 
former  trooper.  "We  were  a  little  hard  on  Mariette, 
I  admit.  But  what  do  you  expect!  I  don't  even 
know  why  it  was  as  yet.  But  if  you  demand  sat- 
isfaction, I  am  ready,"  he  added,  glancing  at  a  col- 
lection of  foils  and  pistols,  the  modern  stand  of  arms, 
heaped  together  in  a  corner. 

"Still  less  do  I  come  for  that,  monsieur.  I  desire 
to  speak  with  the  editor  in  chief." 

"There's  never  anyone  here  before  four  o'clock." 

"Here,  my  old  Giroudeau,  1  make  it  eleven 
columns,  which  at  a  hundred  sous  each,  comes  to 
fifty-five  francs ;  I  have  had  forty,  so,  you  see,  you 
still  owe  me  fifteen  francs  as  1  said." 

These  words  came  from  a  little  pinched  face, 
transparent  as  the  half-cooked  white  of  an  egg, 
pierced  by  a  pair  of  eyes  of  a  soft  shade  of  blue 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  35 1 

but  with  a  horribly  malignant  expression — a  face 
that  belonged  to  a  thin  young  man  who  was  hidden 
behind  the  old  soldier's  opaque  body.  The  voice 
made  Lucien's  blood  run  cold;  it  was  half  way  be- 
tween the  mewing  of  a  cat  and  the  hoarse  asthmatic 
howl  of  the  hyena. 

"Very  true,  my  little  warrior,"  said  the  retired 
trooper,  "but  you  count  titles  and  blank  spaces;  my 
orders  from  Finot  are  to  take  the  whole  number  of 
lines  and  divide  by  the  number  of  lines  in  a  column. 
If  you  perform  that  compressing  operation  upon 
your  article,  you  will  make  it  three  columns  less." 

"What!  he  doesn't  pay  for  blank  spaces,  the 
.Turk!  but  he  reckons  them  when  he  settles  with 
his  partner  for  all  the  editorial  articles  in  bulk. 
I'm  going  to  see  Etienne  Lousteau,  Vernou — " 

"I  can't  go  behind  my  orders,  my  boy,"  said  the 
officer.  "What!  for  fifteen  francs  will  you  turn 
against  your  nurse,  when  you  can  write  articles 
as  easily  as  I  smoke  a  cigar!  Why!  you  can 
just  pay  for  one  bowl  less  of  punch  for  your  friends, 
or  win  an  extra  game  of  billiards,  and  you're  all 
right." 

"Finot  is  saving  money  by  means  that  will  cost 
him  very  dear,"  said  the  editor,  as  he  rose  and  left 
the  room. 

"Wouldn't  one  think  he  was  Voltaire  or  Rous- 
seau?" said  the  cashier  to  himself,  glancing  at  the 
provincial  poet. 

"I  will  call  again  about  four  o'clock,  monsieur," 
said  Lucien. 


352  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

During  the  discussion  he  had  noticed  on  the 
walls,  portraits  of  Benjamin  Constant,  General  Foy 
and  the  seventeen  illustrious  orators  of  the  liberal 
party,  mingled  with  caricatures  against  the  govern- 
ment. He  had  looked  with  especial  interest  at  the 
door  of  the  sanctuary  whence  the  clever  sheet  was 
issued  that  amused  him  every  day  and  that  enjoyed 
the  right  of  casting  ridicule  upon  kings,  upon  the 
most  important  events — the  right,  in  short,  of  dis- 
missing the  most  solemn  subjects  with  a  jest.  He 
went  out  and  strolled  along  the  boulevards,  a  novel 
form  of  entertainment  to  him,  and  so  attractive 
that  the  hands  of  the  clocks  in  the  watchmaker's 
windows  pointed  to  four  o'clock  before  he  realized, 
that  he  had  not  breakfasted.  He  hurried  back  to 
Rue  Saint-Fiacre,  climbed  the  stairs,  did  not  find 
the  old  officer,  but  saw  the  veteran  sitting  on  his 
pile  of  stamped  paper,  eating  a  crust  of  bread  and 
doing  his  sentry  duty  with  a  resigned  air,  worn  as 
naturally  in  the  service  of  the  paper  as  in  the  old 
days  of  extra  picket  duty,  and  with  as  little  com- 
prehension of  what  he  was  doing  as  he  formerly  had 
of  the  reasons  for  the  Emperor's  rapid  marches. 

Lucien  conceived  the  audacious  idea  of  deceiving 
this  redoubtable  official;  he  pulled  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes  and  opened  the  door  of  the  sanctum 
just  as  if  he  belonged  to  the  establishment. 

The  editorial  office  presented  to  his  greedy  eyes 
a  round  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth,  and  six 
chairs  of  cherry  wood  covered  with  straw  seats  that 
were  still  fresh  and  new.     The  floor  of  the  room, 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  353 

painted  in  colors,  had  not  been  polished,  but  it  was 
clean — a  fact  indicating  that  callers  were  few.  On 
the  mantelpiece  were  a  mirror,  a  grocer's  clock 
covered  with  dust,  two  candlesticks  in  which  two 
tallow-dips  were  carelessly  stuck,  and  a  few  visit- 
ing cards.  On  the  table  some  old  newspapers  lay- 
about an  inkstand  in  which  the  ink  had  dried  up 
and  resembled  lacquer;  it  was  supplied  with  quills 
twisted  into  curious  shapes.  He  read  several  arti- 
cles written  in  an  almost  illegible,  hieroglyphic 
handwriting  upon  stray  bits  of  paper,  and  torn  at 
the  top  by  the  compositors  at  the  printing  office, 
who  use  that  method  of  marking  articles  that  are  in 
type.  Here  and  there  he  saw  and  admired  carica- 
tures drawn  upon  colored  paper  with  much  skill,  by 
men  who  had  evidently  been  trying  to  kill  time 
and  keep  their  hand  in  by  killing  something  or 
somebody. 

Pinned  to  the  wall-paper  of  a  watery  green  color 
were  nine  caricatures  drawn  with  the  pen  during 
office  hours,  all  referring  to  the  Solitaire,  a  book 
which  was  then  enjoying  unheard-of  popularity  in 
Europe  and  had  probably  became  a  bore  to  news- 
paper men: — "The  Solitaire,  appearing  in  the  prov- 
inces, astonishes  the  ladies." — "Effect  of  reading 
the  Solitaire  in  a  chateau." — "Effect  of  the  Solitaire 
upon  domestic  animals." — "The  Solitaire,  having 
been  explained  to  savage  tribes,  achieves  a  most 
brilliant  triumph. " — "The  Solitaire  translated  into 
Chinese,  and  presented  by  the  author  to  the  Em- 
peror at  Pekin. " — "Elodie  ravished  by  Mont 
23 


354  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

Sauvage. " — This  caricature  seemed  very  immodest 
to  Lucien,  but  it  made  him  laugh. — "The  Solitaire 
carried  in  procession  by  the  newspapers  under  a 
canopy." — "The  Solitaire,  causing  a  press  to  burst, 
wounds  the  bears." — "The  Solitaire  read  backward 
astonishes  the  academicians  by  its  superior  beau- 
ties."— Lucien  discovered  on  the  wrapper  of  a  news- 
paper, a  drawing  representing  an  editor  holding  out 
his  hat,  and  beneath  it  the  words :  Finot,  my  hun- 
dred francs!  signed  by  a  name  that  has  since  be- 
come famous  but  will  never  be  illustrious.  Between 
the  mantelpiece  and  the  window  were  a  secretaire, 
a  mahogany  armchair,  a  waste-paper  basket  and  an 
oblong  hearth  rug,  the  whole  covered  with  a  thick 
layer  of  dust.  There  were  only  draw-curtains  at 
the  windows.  On  top  of  the  desk  there  were  about 
twenty  works  that  had  been  placed  there  during  the 
day,  engravings,  music,  snuff-boxes  a  la  Charte, 
a  copy  of  the  ninth  edition  of  the  Solitaire,  still  the 
great  joke  of  the  moment,  and  ten  or  twelve  sealed 
letters. 

When  Lucien  had  made  an  inventory  of  this  ex- 
traordinary furniture  and  had  thought  and  thought 
until  his  head  swam,  five  o'clock  having  struck,  he 
returned  to  the  veteran  to  question  him.  Coloquinte 
had  finished  his  crust  and  was  awaiting  with  the 
patience  of  a  soldier  on  sentry-go  the  return  of  his 
decorated  superior,  who  was  walking  on  the  boule- 
vard perhaps.  At  that  moment  a  woman  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  having  given  notice  of  her  approach 
by  the  rustle  of  her  dress  on  the  stairway  and  the 


LOST  ILLUSIONS  355 

light  feminine  step  so  easily  recognized.  She  was 
quite  pretty. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  to  Lucien,  "I  know  why 
you  puff  up  Mademoiselle  Virginie's  hats  so,  and  I 
have  come,  first  of  all,  to  subscribe  for  a  year ;  but 
tell  me  the  terms — " 

"I  am  not  employed  on  the  paper,  madame. " 

"Ah!" 

"Do  you  want  your  subscription  to  begin  with 
the  month  of  October?"  the  veteran  asked. 

"What  is  madame's  business?"  inquired  the  old 
officer,  entering  at  that  moment. 

He  held  a  conference  with  the  fair  milliner.  When 
Lucien,  tired  of  waiting,  returned  to  the  outer  room, 
he  heard  these  concluding  words :  "Why,  I  shall  be 
delighted,  monsieur.  Mademoiselle  Florentine  may 
come  to  my  shop  and  choose  whatever  she  wants.  I 
keep  ribbons.  So  it's  all  agreed;  you  won't  have 
anything  more  to  say  about  Virginie,  a  bungler,  in- 
capable of  inventing  a  style,  while  I  inventall  mine !" 

Lucien  heard  the  chinking  sound  of  a  number  of 
coins  falling  into  the  cash-box.  Then  the  officer 
began  to  make  up  his  daily  account. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  been  here  an  hour,"  said  the 
poet,  with  some  irritation. 

"Haven't  they  come?"  said  the  Napoleonic  vet- 
eran, showing  some  interest  as  a  matter  of  courtesy. 
"I'm  not  surprised.  It's  some  time  since  I've  seen 
them.  It's  the  middle  of  the  month,  you  see!  Those 
fellows  only  come  around  on  pay-day,  the  twenty- 
ninth  or  thirtieth." 


356  LOST  ILLUSIONS 

"And  Monsieur  Finot?"  queried  Lucien,  who  had 
remembered  the  manager's  name. 

"He's  at  home,  Rue  Feydeau.  Coloquinte,  old 
boy,  take  him  everything  that  has  come  to-day,  as 
you  carry  the  paper  to  the  printing  office. 

"Where  in  the  deuce  is  the  paper  made  up?" 
said  Lucien,  speaking  to  himself. 

"The  paper?"  said  the  clerk,  as  Coloquinte 
handed  him  the  change  from  the  Stamp  Office;  "the 
paper? — broum!  broum! — Be  at  the  printing  office 
at  six  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  old  fellow,  to 
keep  the  carriers  up  to  their  work. — The  paper, 
monsieur,  is  made  up  in  the  street,  at  the  authors' 
homes,  at  the  printing  office,  between  eleven  o'clock 
and  midnight.  In  the  Emperor's  day,  monsieur, 
these  shops  for  scribbling  on  paper  weren't  known. 
Ah !  he  would  have  shaken  them  up  with  four  men 
and  a  corporal,  and  not  have  let  himself  be  hood- 
winked by  fine  phrases  as  these  other  people  are. 
But  enough  said.  If  my  nephew  finds  it  profitable 
and  if  he  writes  for  the  other's  son,  why,  after  all — 
broum !  broum ! — there's  no  harm  done.  Well, 
well!  subscribers  don't  seem  to  be  coming  in  in 
regiments,  and  I  think  I'll  leave  the  guard-house." 

"You  seem  to  be  well  posted  on  the  subject  of 
editing  a  newspaper,  monsieur,"  said  Lucien. 

"On  the  financial  side,  broum!  broum!"  said  the 
officer,  noisily  clearing  his  throat.  "A  hundred  sous 
or  three  francs,  according  to  the  talent  displayed, — 
for  a  column  of  fifty  lines  of  forty  letters  each,  not 
counting  blank  spaces — that's  the  rule.     As  for  the 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  357 

editors,  they're  a  curious  lot,  young  fellows  I 
wouldn't  have  for  camp  followers,  and,  just  because 
they  make  fly  tracks  on  white  paper,  they  seem  to 
look  down  on  an  old  captain  of  dragoons  of  the 
Garde  Imperiale,  retired  with  the  rank  of  major, 
who  entered  every  capital  in  Europe  with  Na- 
poleon— " 

Lucien,  finding  that  he  was  being  edged  toward 
the  door  by  the  ex-trooper,  who  was  brushing  his 
blue  coat  and  manifested  an  intention  of  leaving 
the  office,  had  the  courage  to  stand  firm. 

"I  came  here  to  be  employed  as  an  editor,"  he 
said,  "and  I  promise  you  that  I  am  filled  with  respect 
for  one  of  the  captains  of  the  Garde  Imperiale,  those 
men  of  bronze — " 

"Well  said,  my  little  pekin,"  rejoined  the  officer. 
"But  which  class  of  editors  do  you  want  to  enter?" 
he  added,  passing  over  Lucien's  body,  so  to  speak, 
and  descending  the  stairs. 

He  stopped  at  the  porter's  lodge  to  light  his  cigar. 

"If  any  subscriptions  come  in,  Mere  Chollet,"  he 
said,  "take  them  and  make  a  note  of  them. — Always 
subscriptions,  I  think  of  nothing  but  subscriptions," 
he  continued,  turning  to  Lucien,  who  had  followed 
him.  "Finot  is  my  nephew,  the  only  one  of  my 
family  who  has  done  anything  to  make  my  position 
more  comfortable.  So  whoever  seeks  a  quarrel  with 
Finot,  finds  old  Giroudeau,  captain  in  the  dragoons 
of  the  guard,  who  began  as  a  common  soldier  in  the 
army  of  Sambre-et-Meuse,  was  five  years  master-at- 
arms   in  the  First  Hussars,  in  the  army  of  Italy! 


358  LOST   ILLUSIONS 

One,  two,  and  it's  all  up  with  the  fault-finder!"  he 
added,  making  a  pass  with  an  imaginary  sword. 
"Now  then,  my  boy,  we  have  different  classes  of 
editors:  there's  the  editor  who  edits  and  gets  his 
pay,  the  editor  who  edits  and  gets  nothing — him 
we  call  a  volunteer;  lastly,  there's  the  editor  who 
edits  nothing  and  who  isn't  the  biggest  fool  of  the 
lot,  for  he  makes  no  mistakes;  he  passes  for  a 
writer,  he  belongs  to  the  paper,  he  pays  for  our 
dinner,  he  loiters  about  the  theatres,  he  keeps  an 
actress,  he's  very  fortunate.  Which  do  you  want 
to  be?" 

"Why,  an  editor  who  works  hard  and,  on  that 
account,  is  well  paid." 

"Yes,  you're  just  like  all  raw  recruits,  wanting 
to  be  marshals  of  France!  Take  old  Giroudeau's 
advice, — file  left,  slow  time, — and  go  and  pick  up 
nails  in  the  gutter  like  yonder  youth  who  has  been 
in  the  service,  you  can  tell  by  his  carriage. — Isn't 
it  an  outrage  that  an  old  soldier,  who  has  marched 
up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  a  thousand  times,  should 
be  picking  up  nails  in  Paris?  Dieu  de  Dieu,  you're 
a  rascal,  you  didn't  support  the  Emperor! — Look 
you,  my  boy,  that  man  you  saw  this  morning  has 
earned  forty  francs  this  month.  Could  you  do  any 
better  ?  And,  according  to  Finot,  he's  the  brightest 
of  all  his  editors." 

"When  you  joined  the  Sambre-et-Meuse,  didn't 
they  tell  you  there  was  danger  ahead?" 

"Parbleu!  yes." 

"Very  good." 


LOST   ILLUSIONS  359 

"Well,  go  and  see  my  nephew  Finot,  a  good  fel- 
low, the  squarest  man  you  will  ever  meet,  if  you 
can  succeed  in  meeting  him ;  for  he  wriggles  about 
like  a  fish.  In  his  trade,  you  see,  he  doesn't  write 
himself,  but  keeps  others  writing.  It  seems  that 
his  parishioners  prefer  amusing  themselves  with 
actresses  to  soiling  paper.  Oh!  they're  a  queer 
lot!  Farewell,  until  I  have  the  honor  of  meeting 
you  again." 

The  cashier  began  to  twirl  his  redoubtable  leaded 
cane,  one  of  Germanicus's  protectors,  and  left  Lu- 
cien  standing  on  the  boulevard,  as  perplexed  by 
this  sketch  of  the  editorial  function  as  he  had  been 
by  the  definitive  results  of  his  literary  venture 
with  Porchon  and  Vidal.  Ten  times  Lucien  called 
on  Andoche  Finot,  manager  of  the  paper,  at  his 
house  on  Rue  Feydeau,  without  finding  him.  Early 
in  the  morning,  Finot  had  not  returned  home.  At 
noon,  Finot  was  out:  breakfasting,  they  said,  at 
some  cafe.  Lucien  went  to  that  cafe,  and,  sur- 
mounting an  invincible  repugnance,  inquired  for 
Finot  of  the  proprietress;  Finot  had  just  gone.  At 
last  Lucien,  thoroughly  weary  of  his  quest,  came  to 
look  upon  Finot  as  an  apocryphal,  fabulous  person- 
age, and  he  decided  that  it  was  a  simpler  matter  to 
keep  watch  upon  Etienne  Lousteau  at  Flicoteaux's. 
That  young  journalist  would  doubtless  explain  the 
mystery  that  surrounded  the  existence  of  the  paper 
with  which  he  was  connected. 


LIST  OF   ETCHINGS 


VOLUME   XXX 

PAGE 

IN    FINOT'S    OFFICE Fronts. 

ANDRE  DE  CHENIER 40 

EVE  AND  DAVID 156 

MME.  DE   BARGETON'S   BOUDOIR 204 

H  ARCHER  DE  CHARLES  IX. 312 


30  C.  H.,  L.  I.,  i,  N.  &  R.  361 


Cb^A 


11 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

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